


The Mensch

by Aerlalaith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels are Dicks, Bickering, Creature Castiel, Eventual Romance, Human Castiel, Hunters & Hunting, Judah Initiative, M/M, Men of Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 72,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are (maybe) Men of Letters. Castiel is something else entirely. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Go see the awesome cover art by PeggyStarkk (LupusUlulat)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go see the awesome cover art by PeggyStarkk (LupusUlulat)! Here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6167119

The bakery was warm and bustling when he stepped out of the rain and dark into the cheery light of the interior. He took a moment to remove his hat and shake the water off his coat. Still dripping slightly, he shuffled forward up to the counter and attempted to gain the attention of one of the harried staff.

He was rewarded when a young, blonde woman, her white apron spotted with flour and her hair escaping its net in little wisps, caught his eye and mouthed “Just one second,” in what Castiel was pretty sure was his general direction. Satisfied, Castiel settled against the counter to wait while the customer before him prattled on about trees and stockings and ordered two dozen candy cane cookies, and a fruitcake. With nothing better to do, Castiel let his gaze wander into the cases, past the dozens of Santa, reindeer, elf, tree, and stocking shaped sugar cookies, to cakes with cheery seasonal messages, and one particularly decadent looking éclair.

 “Sir? How can I help you?”

 “Oh,” said Castiel, caught off guard. He cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry. I would like to order a challah, please.”

The young woman blinked at him for a moment before her expression cleared. “Oh, yes. Of course. Anything else?”

“Um,” murmured Castiel. He eyed the éclair again. If he ate vegetarian tonight, he could eat the éclair too. “And one éclair, please.”

“Certainly,” said the young woman, whose nametag identified her as Joan.

“Thank you.”

Goods in hand, Castiel paid and left the bakery. Outside, he paused to take a breath of December air and look up at the sky. It was cloudy, still with a slight drizzle, so he couldn’t see any stars of course, but it felt comforting anyway.

He walked the mile and a half back to his apartment complex, fighting the urge to just tear open the white paper bag clutched in his left hand, and devour the éclair on the spot. Sliding the key into the lock, he cursed a little as he jiggled it to turn—he was going to have to call the management, one of these days. But for the love of—

“Need some help, man?” came a voice down the hall. Castiel put his bag down and twisted to see the form of his neighbor-two-apartments-down-as-of-last-week.

“No, thank you,” Castiel said politely, as the lock, defeated, finally turned.

“Must’ve been rusty or something,” his neighbor said companionably. “Not hard to imagine, what with all the rain.”

Castiel gave a non-committal grunt.

“Or maybe your lock is haunted by the Spirits of Christmas Past,” the man suggested.

“I sincerely doubt that my apartment is haunted by any Christmas spirits,” Castiel said dryly. “Unless you’re counting the whisky I purchased on holiday special.”

The man chuckled. “What, you live in this building and you don’t even believe in ghosts? I find that hard to believe.”

“You’re the one who moved in to number 205.”

The man sighed. “Blame my brother for that,” he said. “Always loved a good ghost story.”

Ah, yes. The other neighbor-two-apartments-down-as-of-last-week. Castiel had spotted him trolling the hallway with some beeping, outdated Walkman. He had barely refrained from suggesting that the young man buy a pair of equally outdated headphones to make a matching set.

“In fact,” he continued, “He’d probably love it if you knew any stories about this place. How long have you lived here?”

“Just under a year,” Castiel muttered as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and peered at the number. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

The man smiled. “Okay, but don’t be a stranger.”

Castiel managed a sort of friendly grimace as he tapped on the phone to answer it, simultaneously backing into his apartment, and closing the door with his elbow.

“Brother!” came a delighted voice from the speaker.

“Hello Gabriel,” Castiel sighed. He left the phone on speaker as he placed his bags on the kitchen table.

“My, Castiel. You don’t even sound enthused to hear from me. I’m devastated.”

“I’d give you a five out of ten on the guilt.”

“What if I brought up the part where it’s already sundown and yet here you are, talking on the phone?”

“Six out of ten,” Castiel said.

“That’ll have to do. Got any updates for me?”

“Are you Michael’s errand boy now?”

Gabriel blew a raspberry into the phone, and Castiel was suddenly very glad that it was not nestled right next to his ear. “You know Michael couldn’t give two shits about some Christmas ghost,” he said. “This is a side operation.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “What about Zachariah?”

“Our dearest cousin is still sitting pretty trying to convince an artisanal bentonite company to sell him an entire ton of clay on the cheap for, and I quote, ‘Artistic Purposes.’ This one’s all you, Cas.”

Despite himself, a small grin tugged at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “How’s that going for him?”

“I’d say he’s about a day or so from turning the clay into the Incredible Hulk out of pure irritation. It’s a good look on him.”

“I see.”

“Spill, Cas,” Gabriel said. “Anything new on the case?”

Castiel sighed. “A family moved in to the apartment,” he confessed, wincing at Gabriel’s expected shriek.

“What? The hell do you mean _someone moved in_. Any kids?”

“No.” Castiel rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Two adult brothers. Well, so they say.”

“Oh?” Gabriel’s voice turned sly. “Brothers or, maybe _brothers_.”

“Gross, Gabe. I’m pretty sure they’re actually related.”

“Why the hesitancy then?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. He leaned up against the sink and began to wash and peel some carrots. “Just something about them doesn’t quite…add up.”

Gabriel was quiet for a moment. “Well,” he said finally. “Either way, you’ve got about a week to convince them to move out.”

Castiel gave a mild groan of frustration. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” he demanded. “I’ve sabotaged the place so many times, it might as well be haunted by a poltergeist, too. You know they agreed to move in without any running water?”

“Must’ve been desperate,” Gabriel mused.

“So it would seem.” Castiel chopped his carrots with a little more force than necessary, and threw them in the pot to join the already simmering onion, parsnips and broccoli.

On the other end of the line, Gabriel heaved a sigh. “Huh. Okay well whatever your crazy new neighbors are up to, your priority is to get them to be crazy somewhere that’s not apartment 205.”

“Yes, Gabriel. I understand that. I’ll take care of it.”

“No need to be so snippy, Sassy-Cassy. Let me know if you need backup.”

“I’ll take care of it, Gabriel,” Castiel repeated through clenched teeth.

“See that you do.”

“I _will_ Gabriel. Trust me to do my job.”

“All right, little brother. Later then.”

“Goodbye.”

After hanging up, Castiel prepared the rest of his vegetable soup in glorious silence. Sitting down, he lit the candles, sang the proper prayers, and ate the rest of his meal savoring the quiet, all the while plotting how to convince two stubborn young men to leave apartment 205.

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

 

Castiel’s plotting was not very successful.

“I’ve tried everything,” he hissed into the phone. “Breaking the water pipes again, cutting off the heater, cutting off the electricity, cutting off the _wifi_ , cockroaches—”

“Cockroaches?”

“Apparently there’s a reason they don’t already populate the Pacific Northwest,” Castiel said glumly.

“So what’s your plan now?”

Castiel shut his eyes, steeling himself. “I’m planning to invite them over for Christmas Eve dinner, and drug them.”

There was a very long pause on the other end of the line.

“Don’t,” Castiel warned.

Gabriel cackled. “Christmas Eve dinner,” he said, savoring the words. “My brother, Castiel ben Ha-Malachim, is inviting his neighbors over for _Christmas Eve Dinner_.“

“Do you have any better ideas?” Castiel growled. “In two days that apartment’s going to be a deathtrap. So, if you could be a little helpful, I would really appreciate it.”

“Christmas Eve Dinner!” Gabriel choked, laughing.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Oh, Cassy, wait until I tell Balthazar!”

“Goodbye, Gabriel,” Castiel snapped. He turned off the phone while Gabriel was too busy sniggering to reply, and shoved it back into his pocket. Running his fingers through his already messy hair, he tugged at his grey sweater, smoothing out the wrinkles, trying to dry his sweaty palms.

He was not good at socializing at the best of times. Gabriel knew that. _Everyone_ knew that. That’s why Gabriel found him the jobs he did. And this—this was not something that he wanted to be doing. But. He could do this. He _had_ to do this.

With that thought held high in his mind, Castiel marched down the hall and knocked on number 205. Damn it, he would invite his foolish neighbors over for Christmas, even if Gabriel made fun of him for the next year.

“Just a sec!” came a muffled voice.

Castiel waited, folding his arms and then unfolding them. He shifted his weight back and forth, feet scuffing on the worn carpet. The door swung open.

“Uh, hello,” said his neighbor.

“Hello.” Castiel swallowed. “You said, uh, not to be a stranger.”

Crickets. The silence that enveloped them could only have been made more awkward with crickets.

“Right,” the man said finally, squinting a little. “Uh, did you need something?”

His eyes are very green, Castiel thought absurdly. He gathered his courage. “No, I—I’m sorry, I just meant to introduce myself. I—My name is Cas—Castiel.” He stuck out his hand. “Castiel Novak.”

The man’s face shifted into a bemused smile. “Dean Page,” he said, shaking Castiel’s proffered hand. “And—”

“Dean?” came a second voice. Internally, Castiel cheered. The other brother. Two birds with one stone. “Who is it?”

“Our neighbor, Castiel,” Dean called over his shoulder, giving Castiel a slight wink. “That’s my little brother, Sam.”

“Who?” asked Sam, coming down the hall to loom over Dean’s shoulder. Despite being younger, he appeared quite a bit taller than Dean. Same nose, though. “Oh, hello. Are you our neighbor? Nice to meet you. I’m Sam.” He stuck out a grease-covered hand for Castiel to shake, then seemed to think better of it. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been trying to fix the pipes. It’s been hell this last week.”

“Oh?” Castiel queried politely. “Something wrong with the plumbing?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s like they leak in a new place every day,” he complained. “Fucking ridiculous.”

“Weird,” said Castiel, his face very, very blank. “I’m sorry to hear it. Maybe you should check out a hotel or something until management fixes it.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged. “We’ve lived in worse.”

“That is, that is really too bad,” Castiel said, somewhat lamely. “Um.” _Now, Castiel. Ask them now._ “Um, if you’d like a break from all that, I’d be happy to have you two over for a meal sometime. Maybe tomorrow evening?” Great. He had gone for ‘Mr. Rogers’ and landed somewhere in ‘Creepily Desperate’ instead. Excellent.

The brothers didn’t seem to notice his transparent desperation though. In fact, at the mention _of tomorrow evening_ , Sam and Dean froze. “Well,” said Dean, clearly stalling for time. “Isn’t that Christmas Eve?”

“I mean,” said Castiel. “I suppose it is. I mean, I guess usually I just order Chinese or something but I could cook too, it’s really no problem…” he trailed off.

“Oh,” said Sam, with the air of someone remembering something that was actually being made up on the spot. “Thanks, Castiel, but uh. Dean and I have this, uh, traditional thing we do on Christmas Eve.” Dean slowly turned to eye his brother. Sam gave him a look.

Castiel gaze switched back and forth between the two. Something was off, here.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said vaguely, after a moment. “Yeah, we’ve got this—this totally traditional family thing we do—not to turn down your offer or anything. Maybe, um, how about a rain check?”

Castiel blinked. “Rain check?”

“Yeah, like, maybe for after Christmas?” Sam jumped in eagerly. “In fact, we’d be totally glad to have you over for New Years or something.”

This was not happening. This was definitely not happening. Salvage. He had to salvage the situation.

“Oh, um. If you’re sure. But I mean, do you not, I mean, isn’t it difficult for you to cook in there? What with the pipes and all?”

“Nah, I’ve totally got them fixed now,” Sam assured him, not even flinching at the _drip drop drip_ clearly audible throughout the apartment.

“Yeah man,” Dean said, laughing with a little too much effort. “Sorry. We’ll totally take a rain check on that meal though.”

“All right,” said Castiel, somewhat at a loss.

There was a beat.

“So, uh. Guess we’ll see you around then,” Sam said, smile a little too wide. “It was nice to meet you.” And before Castiel barely got in his nod of agreement, they had shut the door in his face.

What. What the hell.

Castiel trudged back to his door, shoulders slumped. He dialed Gabriel as soon as he was safely inside.

“It didn’t work,” he said without preamble.

“Fuck,” Gabriel said. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel grumbled. “Maybe—” a slight memory assaulted him then. “I remember Dean—the older brother—he said something about the younger one being interested in ghost stories. You don’t think…?”

“You don’t think these two morons have watched GhostFacers too many times for their own good?” Gabriel finished the thought for him. “It’s possible, I guess. Would explain why they moved in so close to Christmas.”

“Idiots,” Castiel said heatedly. “They’re going to get themselves killed.”

“Yeah, well, _we_ know that, but civilians don’t, Cas.”

Castiel frowned, turning a dishcloth over in his hands. “It’s foolish. Why run towards something that wants to kill you?”

“We do.”

“Because it’s our duty, Gabriel, not for a lark!” Castiel snapped. “There’s a difference.”

“And now it’s your job to educate your neighbors about that difference,” Gabriel said, in that really reasonable sort of voice that Castiel despised.

“I know.”

“You know what you have to do?”

“Yes. I know.”

“Good luck then. Try not to get arrested.”

“Thank you.”

“May the force be with you.”

“Goodbye Gabriel.”

After hanging up, Castiel stood stock still for a moment in his kitchen, thinking. Then, having reached a decision, he headed towards his closet to unearth his kit, to prepare, and to wait.

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

 

Christmas Eve Day passed slowly. Castiel spent most of it inside, although he did venture out to brave the mall Santas and bell ringing Salvation Army collectors, in order to purchase some extra rock salt at the hardware store. He encountered Mrs. McNeil, eighty-five years young, and bid her a Merry Christmas, all the while dodging her sincere invitation to join her at midnight mass. He did not see Sam and Dean.

Their apartment remained dark, as far as he could tell. And he hoped that they had not being lying yesterday, and that perhaps they did have some sort of family obligation to see to, and would not even be at home. But somehow, he doubted it.

At just past eleven forty-five pm, Castiel slid out of his apartment and closed the door quietly behind him. He padded down the hallway until he reached apartment 205. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out some flat slender wires and, kneeling, began to pick the lock. After a few moments of tinkering, he heard a slight click. He put his tools back into his pocket, stood, and slowly eased the door open.

The apartment was dark. The only light came from the streetlamps outside, curling around the frayed edges of the kitchen curtains. Well, that was to be expected. Hopefully, Sam and Dean were either gone, or in bed. Hopefully, he could get this over with before they woke up (although he was not exactly optimistic about that possibility).

The lights flickering on, and the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking at the side of his head, dashed all of Castiel’s hopes into tiny, shattered pieces.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing in here?” demanded Dean at the exact same time as Castiel said,

“I swear, I can explain. Please do not shoot me.”

“This had better be a really, really good explanation,” Dean said tightly. He glanced across the kitchen and, Castiel, chancing to glance too, spied Sam standing in the entranceway. His arms were crossed and he looked very, very unimpressed. There was a clock next to him. It read 11:57 pm.

“All right,” Castiel said. He raised his hands slowly. “I can explain. I swear. It’s not what you think.”

“Not what we think?” Sam repeated.

“Dude, if you were going to break into our apartment, there are _way_ better nights to do it,” Dean growled. “Believe me.”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Castiel said. “But tonight was really the only night I would do something like this so, please—”

The lights flickered. The brothers looked at each other. “Sammy,” Dean said slowly.

“Shit, Dean. Yeah. I know.”

“Now would be a good time to lower your gun so I can explain,” Cas urged, throat tight with anxiety.

The lights flickered again, and then went out completely. A wash of cold air flowed over the back of Castiel’s neck.

“Dean,” said Sam, his voice much sharper now. He had moved close enough to the kitchen windows to tug the curtains back, allowing the meager street lights some entry into the darkened apartment. All around them, the cupboards began to rattle.

“Fuck,” Dean said. He looked at Castiel sharply. “Do _not_ do anything stupid,” he said. “I swear to god. I’ll deal with you when we’re done here.”

The air grew colder. But now, Castiel was quite warm with irritation. “Excuse you?” he said hotly. “Deal with me?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, eyes flashing, before he was suddenly picked up by things invisible, and thrown violently into the wall.

“Dean!” Sam shouted.

At the same moment, Castiel felt cold fingers on his throat. He allowed himself a small feeling of satisfaction as an unearthly shriek sounded when ghost hands made contact with the silver hamsa around his neck. He dropped to the floor, and pulled out a pair of twin knives from beneath his jacket.

“Goddammit you son of a bitch!” Dean bellowed, lurching to his feet. He reached for his gun and, before Castiel could warn him that bullets were useless against ghosts, had fired. Miraculously, the apparition disappeared.

Castiel’s jaw dropped.

“Salt rounds only keep them busy for a few seconds,” Sam said helpfully, completely misinterpreting the look on Castiel’s face. “It’ll be back.”

At that, utterly condescending piece of information, really, Castiel found his voice again. “Are you two Hunters?” he asked incredulously, not sure whether to be relieved or furious.

Dean’s head whipped around to look at him. “How do you know what we are?”

Castiel did not even begin to know how to start vocalizing the absurdity of this entire situation, but his bulging eyes and clenching hands seemed to do the trick nicely. Dean’s eyes widened in realization.

“Did you break into out apartment to scoop our hunt?”

“Technically,” Castiel said, trying to keep his voice very, very calm. And level. And calm. “Technically—” there was suddenly a ghost right by his elbow. He swiped at it with his knives, perhaps more viciously than necessary. “Technically, it’s my hunt you’re ‘scooping’ isn’t it?”

(He may or may not have gone up an octave or so at that last bit).

“He’s kind of got a point, Dean,” Sam agreed.

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“I’m just saying—” Sam shot an apparition with another salt round.

“What, you couldn’t have said something?” Dean growled in Castiel’s general direction.

“What was I supposed to say?” Castiel retorted. “You didn’t exactly identify yourselves as Hunters. I tried everything to get you to leave the apartment.”

“Hey, did you fuck with the wifi?” Sam said from somewhere behind him. “Not cool, man.”

“On what planet is it a good idea to actually _move into_ a haunted apartment?” Castiel continued, slashing at the air.

“It was the only empty one in the building,” Dean replied angrily. He shot three rounds in quick succession. “Don’t you get off on telling us how to do our job—”

“If we could get back to the problem at hand?” Sam interrupted.

Dean inhaled. “Fine.” He looked around the room, eyes narrowed. “Okay, you son of a bitch. Where the hell is it?”

The only answer was an unnerving childish laughter.

“Don’t play games with us!” Dean warned. “Where is it?"

“Dean—”

“Shut up, Castiel.”

“Dean, the ghost is not going to reveal the location of the object of its attachment to you just because you ask.”

“It’s not like I asked you—.”

 _“You’ll never find it,”_ came a sacharine sweet voice. _“Never ever. Merry, merry Christmas!”_

“Where is it?” Dean shouted again. He yelped as he was flung into the wall and then, with a groan, was still. As Sam aimed to shoot, he too was lifted and thrown, this time straight into the door.

 _“A merry, merry Christmas!”_ came the gleeful singsong. Then the tone deepened. _“For everyone. Forever.”_

Castiel ground his teeth. Really. This had gone too far. “Spirit,” he said lowly. “I do not celebrate Christmas. And I have had just about enough of you.”

In response, the cupboards began to bang even more. The stove flickered on. Castiel’s gaze hardened, and he began to mutter in a guttural, nearly inhuman language. As his words continued, the spirit was suddenly there, its form clearer than ever, the shape that of a little boy, hideously burnt on one side. Castiel spat out one, final sharp phrase, and the spirit began to writhe in mid-air.

“Tell me,” Castiel commanded, even as a flame leapt from the gas stove to begin burning the roll of paper towels on the counter. The spirit howled in response, its face changing from child’s to monster’s and back again.

“Tell me!”

“Castiel?” Sam said, staring at him, scrambling to his feet.  

“Where is it!”

With an agonized shriek, the spirit pointed, unwillingly, its arm almost dragging, towards the oven.

“Quick, Sam!” Castiel shouted. “Check the oven!”

To his credit, Sam didn’t question it. He pulled the door open, heedless of the flames above, and shoved half his body inside. But— “There’s nothing here!”

Castiel thought for a moment. “Check behind it!”

Sam eyed the unit. Then with a grunted curse, grabbed both sides and pulled it as hard as he could away from the wall. The fire from the stove, now travelled to both sides of the counter, singed the hair on his arms, but he ignored it.

“No!” cried the ghost.

“I see it!” called Castiel, leaping onto a chair to get a better view. “It’s an ornament—”

“I can’t reach it!” Sam said. He let go of the sides of the oven as the fire became too hot. The smoke alarm suddenly began to screech.

“Here!” Castiel tossed a bag to him. Mostly out of pure instinct, Sam caught it. “Throw salt and that roll of burning paper towels on it and let’s get the hell out of here!”

That, Sam thought, had to be the best suggestion he’d heard all day. As quickly as his hands could move, he opened the bag of salt, tossed it behind the stove as best as he could, then, grabbed the flaming roll of paper towels and tossed it as well. He swore as his fingers burned.

Above him, still held captive by whatever Castiel had been doing, the ghost screamed. Its form seemed to expand for a moment, full of snarling fury, and then it burst into flames and was gone.

Behind Castiel, Dean groaned.

“Dean!” Sam said. He prepared to go to his brother, but then halted, realizing that there was now a wall of very real fire between him and the other two. Castiel seemed to realize it at the exact same moment. He closed his eyes for a second, concentrating, then shook his head. Binding the spirit had tapped his resources. He could already feel his knees weakening. This fire would listen to no master.

“I’ll take care of him,” Castiel said. “We’ll go out the fire escape.”

Sam shook his head. “No, I can reach him—”

“Sam,” Castiel interrupted, rising his voice in order to be heard over the crackling of flame and wood. “You have to go out the door. Warn everyone about the fire.”

But Sam stood frozen, still staring at Dean. “But—”

“There are over fifteen apartments in this building!” Castiel hollered impatiently. His throat had begun to sting from the smoke. He coughed. “Dean and I can get out through the window, but you have to wake people up, Sam!”

At that, Sam shook himself. He looked helplessly at the impassable flames. “You’d better!” he said thickly. Then, “If I don’t see you outside with him Castiel, I swear to god I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

Castiel met his gaze, and nodded. With one last, desperate look, Sam was out the door with a bang and into the hallway, already shouting to rouse the building.

The heat from the fire growing ever more oppressive, Castiel moved a few paces and fumbled with the latch on the window, shoving it open to peer at the fire escape just below. He turned to look at Dean, still crumpled on the floor, the fire dangerously close to his left shoulder.

Hoping that he wasn’t about to give Dean permanent spinal damage, Castiel reached over and grabbed at his arms. As he did so, Dean’s jacket caught on fire. Castiel cried out as his hand was burnt even as he clutched at Dean and dragged him to the window with strength he didn’t know he possessed. In the distance, he could hear the sound of fire engines.

With wet December air cool on his face, Castiel gathered Dean to him at the edge of the window. And, depending more on faith than he had in a long time, he took the first precarious step onto the ledge

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

 

When Dean came to, he was first very aware of the pain in his throat. He opened his eyes and saw white blurs.

Huh. That couldn’t be good.

“Water,” he mumbled. “Water.”

Someone placed a cool hand on his forehead and a straw in his mouth. He sucked greedily.

“Not so fast,” came Sam’s familiar voice. “Jeeze, slow down.”

“Sammy?” Dean rasped.

“Yeah.”

“Everything good?”

“Well, half the building burnt down, and you’ve got two broken ribs, a concussion, and second degree burns all over your arm but other than that, yeah?”

There was. There was something else. “The . . . ghost?” he hazarded.

“Ganked,” Sam replied.

And. What else was there? Something? (A flash of black hair, bright blues eyes). “Cas . . . Castiel?”

“I survived,” came a deeper voice, somewhere off to his left. “Although my apartment did not.”

“Oh,” Dean said vaguely. “Too bad.”

“It had served its purpose.”

But if Castiel continued to speak after that, Dean did not hear it. He slept.

The second time Dean awoke, he felt a lot more lucid. Also, in a lot more pain.

“Ow,” he groaned.

“What, they lower your dosages one tiny bit and suddenly you’re dying?” Sam snarked from the chair next to his bedside.

Dean scowled. “Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Am I interrupting?” came a voice from the doorway. With some effort, Dean shifted his head to see Castiel, former weird neighbor extraordinaire, standing in the doorway holding a small stuffed bear. There was a heart on the bear’s belly. Also, a lollipop clutched in its paws.

“Oh my god,” said Sam, voice strangled. “Is that for Dean?”

Castiel glared defensively. “The nurse at the desk suggested it. I purchased it at the gift shop.”

“Oh my god,” Sam repeated.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean said, more to spite Sam than anything else. “You can put the bear down there.” He pointed at his bedside table.

Somewhat mollified, Castiel set the bear down gently, then settled himself into one of the chairs. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up by a pissed off spirit,” Dean said, before he could stop himself.

Castiel tilted his head. “Well, you did.”

Dean shut his eyes. “Yes,” he ground out. “I know that.”

“So, Castiel,” said Sam from the other side of him. “You’re a Hunter?”

At that question, Castiel’s gaze shifted downward. He folded his fingers together. “Not quite,” he admitted. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Please,” Dean waved his undamaged hand. “We’ve spent the past decade being told that as the only grandsons of Henry Winchester, we’re apparently far better than simple, _brutish_ hunters.” He sneered. “We know complicated.”

Castiel straightened. “Did you say ‘Henry Winchester?’ You’re Winchesters?”

“Uh,” said Dean. “I guess. Yeah. More Campbell than Winchester though, if you ask anyone.”

“Men of Letters.”

“You know the Men of Letters?” Sam asked.

Castiel nodded. “If you’ve had any dealings with the Men of Letters—“

“We try and avoid it,” Dean said sourly.

“—Then maybe you’ve heard of my organization.” He fixed the brothers with a steely eye. “I’m a-- a member, of the Judah Initiative.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, wondering what the little stutter had been about. “Nope, never heard of it.”

“I have,” Sam said, unexpectedly.

Castiel and Dean both slowly turned to look at him.

“What?” Sam said defensively. He looked at Castiel. “I thought the Judah Initiative was decimated after the Second World War though.”

Castiel shrugged. “According to my family, it is easier to accomplish things when your enemies do not believe that you exist. Though we did suffer—many losses.”

“There are more of you?”

Castiel frowned. “I have many siblings and cousins. We are as numerous as your Men of Letters.” He tilted his head. “Only without the gender discriminating title,” he muttered.

“Hey, not _our_ Men of Letters, man,” Dean protested.

“You said you were Winchesters,” Castiel pointed out.

Dean looked away. “It’s complicated.”

“I see.” Castiel stood. “I have to update my brother, but I am glad that you are recovering, Dean Winchester. Perhaps our paths will cross again sometime, in the Hunt.”

“Uh,” said Dean. “Maybe, I guess.”

Castiel nodded to him, and to Sam. “Until next time then,” he said. And before Sam could get a word in edgewise, Castiel was already out the door, a ridiculous tan trench coat billowing behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Dean turned to Sam. “That was weird,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sam managed. “Do you think we should, you know, let the Men of Letters know about it?”

Dean thought for a moment, then shook his head. “From what Cas said—”

“Oh, he’s _Cas_ now, is it?”

“Shut up. A guy saves your life and you can’t shorten his name? Jesus. Anyway, from what _Cas_ said I get that the old bastards probably know these guys are still around.”

“And you don't think we should tell them that we met one of them? They might not, Dean. We don't know. Do we really want some guy running around who can do stuff like we saw Castiel do, without knowing who he plays for?”

But Dean shook his head. “We should wait and see. Maybe talk to Bobby, if anyone.”

“But, Dean—”

“Come on, Sammy. We don't owe them anything.”

“They’re family, Dean.”

“Sure as hell don’t act like it,” Dean retorted. He rubbed his temples, settling back into the bed. “Whatever. Better to wait and see what’s up before we make our move.”

Sam still looked doubtful, but he sat back as well. “All right,” he said. “We’ll wait and see.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m dying,” Castiel said. “I’m sick. I’m dead. I’m dying.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Gabriel yawned, padding past the bathroom where Castiel, miserable, leaned against the toilet seat.

“That’s easy for you to say— _ugh_.”

“At least I was nice enough to put you up here, instead of sending you to a hotel. And this is the thanks I get? You vomiting in my pristine—well, formerly pristine—bathroom?”

“You wouldn’t pay for a hotel,” Castiel retorted weakly.

Gabriel shrugged, tugging his robe tighter around his body. “You done throwing up yet?”

Castiel sighed. “Maybe.”

“Is that an actual maybe, or a yes-Gabriel-I’m-all-done, maybe?”

Castiel shook his head, brushing sweaty bangs out of his eyes. “I don’t think there’s anything else that’s going to come up,” he confessed.

Gabriel clucked his tongue before heading into the bathroom. “Come on,” he said, gripping Castiel under the armpits and hauling him up to a vaguely standing position. Castiel groaned. “Oh, you big baby,” Gabriel said. “Stand up properly, would you?”

“Can’t,” Castiel muttered.

“Ugh,” Gabriel said. “You’re heavy. Did you gain some weight recently?”

“I’m actually pretty sure that I just lost a lot.” Castiel paused. “Because I threw up,” he added after a moment, helpfully.

“Yeah, Cas. I got that part,” Gabriel exhaled. He tried his best to lean his brother’s form against the bathroom counter. “Now how about you brush your teeth, and then we’ll get you settled back in bed with a nice cup of tea, hmm?”

“Don’t want tea,” Castiel grumbled rebelliously. “Coffee.”

“Tough,” Gabriel said. “It’s tea for you, bucko. Now brush your damn teeth. Your breath stinks.”

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

 

Castiel was sick for three days. Days filled with waking up out of a hazy sleep to fumble his way back towards the bathroom, eating when Gabriel told him to, and being out cold the rest of the time.

On the third day he awoke properly. Sweaty, but much more cognizant than usual.

“Well, sleeping beauty. Just in time,” Gabriel said from the doorway of the guest bedroom.

Castiel rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and absently scratched at his already messy bed-head. “Whaa?”

Gabriel entered and sat on Castiel’s bed, tossing a manila envelope down between them. He placed the back of his hand on Castiel’s forehead. “Looks like your fever broke.”

“What’s the—” Castiel yawned. “What’s the thing?”

“Michael sent it,” Gabriel said, his voice unusually serious. “He sent it for you, specifically.”

Castiel’s jaw snapped shut mid-yawn. “For me,” he said flatly.

Gabriel shrugged. “Looks like. Better open it.”

“Why on earth would Michael send something to me?” Castiel mused. “He spends most of the time pretending that I don’t exist.” He snorted. "Unless he has a job and then he tells _you_ about it."

“Oh, come on, Cassy. That’s not true.”

Castiel fixed him with a baleful look. “Yes, Gabriel, it is.”

Gabriel held up his hands. “Okay, so he’s a traditionalist. That doesn’t mean he hates you, for crying out loud.”

“He’s not a traditionalist,” Castiel said. “He’s a dick.” He tore apart the envelope. Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

“Wow, Cassy. I’m impressed. Used to be you never would have said a word against him.”

Castiel looked down at his hands. “Used to be, I was different.”

There was nothing Gabriel could say to that. Instead, he cleared his throat. “So, what does the eldest brother want with the little Joseph of the family, hmm?”

Castiel’s head snapped up. “Don’t call me that,” he said. “It only makes it worse.”

“Oh please. It’s not like Michael can hear me.” He cocked his head, frowning. “Does that make me Benjamin? But I’m older than you…Cas?” He prodded his brother’s elbow. “Earth to Major Cas?”

“He wants me to go back to Portland,” Castiel said softly, clutching a letter between two shaky hands.

Gabriel tilted his head. “I’m sorry. He wants you to what now? You sure that’s actually Michael’s handwriting?”

“No, that’s—” Castiel scrubbed at three days worth of prickly beard growth. “He wants me to go back to Portland to spy on the Winchesters.”

Silence followed this pronouncement. Castiel turned to eye Gabriel.

“How does Michael know about the Winchesters, Gabriel?” he asked evenly. “I don’t recall telling him.”

Gabriel made a little helpless gesture. “You never talk to Michael. It _is_ my job to update him.”

“So you told him.”

“Hey, you never said _not_ to.”

Castiel rubbed at his temples. “Obviously I thought I didn’t have to, Gabriel,” he said. “You know how Michael is.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, now starting to sound a little angry himself. “He’s also in charge, Cas. What was I supposed to do, lie to him?”

“Maybe!” Castiel fired back.

Gabriel pointed a finger at him. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re still a part of us, Castiel, no matter how much you try to isolate yourself.”

Castiel flinched back as if struck. Either unnoticing or uncaring, Gabriel continued.

“Why the hell would you try and protect two hunters? You don’t even know what Michael wants with them! Michael needs to get over himself about the—” he stumbled, “—about your _thing_. But you should make sure you know where your loyalties lie too, _Castiel_.”

There was a pause. Then. “Get out,” Castiel said.

Gabriel scowled. “This is my house.”

“I don't. Fucking. Care,” Castiel said, careful to enunciate every word. “Get out.”

“Cas—”

“Get out!” His eyes met Gabriel’s, feverish again, but nearly as surprised as his brother’s at his own outburst. “Please,” he said, more quietly, though the twisting of his fingers in the bedcovers betrayed his tension. “I’d. I’d like to be alone.”

Gabriel huffed out a breath, and stood from the bed. “Fine,” he said tightly. “But this conversation’s not over.”

Castiel didn’t look at him, continuing to stare down at the bed. “Fine.”

Gabriel left.

Castiel sat in the dark, fists clenching and unclenching. His eyes shut tight, he tried to will himself back to the comforting nonsense of fever dreams. He was only marginally successful.

Despite Gabriel’s threats however, two weeks later found the pair standing at the LAX check-in, their conflict far from resolved.

“You sure you’re fine to travel,” Gabriel repeated, perhaps for the third time in the past hour.

Castiel took a deep, fortifying breath. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Well…” Gabriel said, shoulders shifting uncomfortably. He handed Castiel his other bag. “Good luck.”

Castiel took the bag. “Luck is going to have very little to do with it.”

Gabriel rubbed his face with his palms. “Look. I know it’s a shitty situation, okay? Maybe I can talk to Michael for you. Try to get him to—well, not change his mind, god knows he never changes his mind, but—”

Castiel, sensing that Gabriel’s ramblings were probably about to go nowhere comfortable, forestalled him by placing a brief hand on his shoulder.

“I get it, Gabriel,” he said. “I do. But it’s not going to work.”

Gabriel blinked at him. “Uh, you’re going to have to be a little more clear,” he said. “What is it that you _get_ now?”

Castiel sighed. He heaved his carry-on over his shoulder and smashed his paper ticket into the front pocket of his coat. “I know you hate it when we fight—”

“Oh, come _on_ Cas.”

“—but you’re not going to be able to mediate this one. Michael’s made up his mind. About me _and_ the Winchesters—whatever he wants with them. So at this point…”

“So at this point, what, Cas?” Gabriel said, tone suspicious.

Castiel shook his head. “At this point I have a job to do, all right? I can’t let my personal problems get in the way of my responsibilities. So you don’t need to ‘talk to Michael for me’,” he quoted distastefully. “I know what I have to do. So don’t worry about it.”

Gabriel frowned at him. “Cas…”

“I’ll call you when the plane lands,” Castiel said. He turned towards the security line. “I have to find my gate.”

“Okay,” Gabriel returned, his brow still furrowed as Castiel walked away. Then, when he was sure that Castiel was out of hearing range, he clenched his jaw and swore. “Damn it, Cas.”

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

 

Castiel did not call Gabriel immediately upon landing. He didn’t even call when he got to his temporary motel room, showered, and changed clothing. Finally, at 7:00 pm, Castiel took out his cell phone and dialed someone completely different.

The phone rang several times before it was answered.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Bass?”

"Uh, hello?"

"This is Castiel."

There was a slight choking noise on the other end of the line. “Fuck, Castiel?”

Castiel settled himself more comfortably into the armchair. “Yes.”

“Jeeze, Castiel. Whatever happened to just Aaron? ‘Mr. Bass’ is my dad.”

Castiel let his voice soften just a tad. “Apologies, Aaron,” he said. “I didn’t want to presume.”

“God you’re weird,” Aaron replied, though his tone was clearly fond. “Is this—are you calling on business?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Uh. I mean, sorry. I just—I heard about what happened with Michael and stuff. I guess I assumed you wouldn’t be calling for a while.”

“It has been quite a while,” Castiel said evenly, though he winced a little. “You heard about that?”

“Dude,” Aaron said. “Everyone heard about it.”

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. He should have stayed in contact with Aaron at least. Then he wouldn't be feeling so blindsided. “Define everyone.”

“Okay, maybe my Grandma didn’t hear but that’s because she’s completely deaf,” Aaron said. “But I mean—obviously your guys knew, then—I guess someone’s golem let it slip to my grandfather’s, so it got all over _our_ branch. Which, kind of surprising a golem would be a gossip, am I right? Like, they’re made of dirt so it’s kind of weird—”

“Clay.”

“Whatever, Cas. Anyway, you know Grandpa’s a good guy but.”

“I have the utmost respect for Rabbi Bass,” Castiel intoned.

“Yeah, yeah. But he was playing ma-jong with those guys visiting from Tzfat and next thing you know…”

Castiel exhaled. “I guess I should have expected this.”

“Hey,” Aaron said. “I mean, it was big news at the time, but they’ll get over it.”

“Aaron,” Castiel said steadily. “Have you ever known Michael to _get over_ anything?”

“Well.” Aaron hesitated.

“Exactly,” Castiel said.

“Okay. But I mean—take it from me. I’ve been in your situation. Kind of. And people mostly don’t pay attention to it anymore, really. I swear.”

“Aaron,” Castiel sighed. “I appreciate that you are trying to make me feel better. But the— _situation_ —it’s only a mask for the real issues. Michael would have found something eventually. This just happened to fall in his lap.”

“Yeah,” Aaron said. “I guess you’re right. Plus, being one of the _malachim_ just makes it worse, doesn’t it? Not like us commoners.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Castiel scolded. He leaned foreword. “You’re as worthy as any of us.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aaron waved him off. “Don’t make me blush, Castiel.”

“I’m sure that if it had been you instead of who it was, Michael would only have been three fourths as angry,” Castiel assured him.

“That’s—that’s flattering, Castiel. Really. Because the other possibility is that he would have killed me on the spot. Um, what was the business you were calling about again?”

Castiel suddenly felt his good mood evaporating. “On my last job I ran into two Hunters,” he said. “They have some kind of connection to the Men of Letters. I need to know everything you can tell me about them.”

“Okay,” Aaron said. “Hunters are hard to track though. What’s the name?”

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” Castiel said. He hesitated. “And—check Campbell, too. They mentioned that one of their parents was a Campbell.”

“Even I know the Campbells,” Aaron said. Castiel could hear the sounds of a laptop booting up, then typing. “I should be able to find something on them. Give me a few hours. I’ll call you back.”

“Isn’t it late where you are?” Castiel couldn’t help asking. “It’s not desperately urgent.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Aaron said. “I’ll call you later.”

There was a click and Castiel was disconnected. He looked down at his phone, and it buzzed in his hand.

_R U alive?_

_Sorry,_ Castiel typed back. _I was doing some research._

_U said you would call, u dick_

_Sorry_

Gabriel did not deign to reply. Castiel waited for a moment, then placed his phone on the bedside table. He lay down and closed his eyes, thinking that he could definitely afford a few minutes of rest.

He was roused unceremoniously out of sleep to the ringing of the phone and one sudden, very clear thought in his mind: _Golems do not just “let things slip.”_

Castiel picked up the phone. “Aaron,” he said. “Do you know whose golem spoke to your grandfather’s?”

Later, Castiel strode down the street, his trenchcoat flapping. Apparently (bizarrely) the Winchester brothers were still in town. That at least made his job (such as it was) easier.

If the Winchesters were easier to find, then they were easier to watch. Simple.

Less simple was the seeming fact that Zachariah’s golem had been the one to let slip the news of Castiel’s—well, maybe dishonor wasn’t quite the word, but it was good enough—to the rest of the scattered branches of the Judah Initiative. And since a golem never did anything without their master’s say-so, then Zachariah was obviously at fault. And because Zachariah, like the humble golem, never did anything without someone else’s say-so either, clearly there was a third player.

The lines in Castiel’s forehead deepened. It didn’t make sense for Michael to gossip. He was the one who was supposed to have kept his younger brother on the correct path, after all. He had nearly as much of a risk of losing face as Castiel himself.

But if not Michael, then who?

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

 

“So what do you think, Bobby?”

“Well,” Bobby said through the phone. “From what you’re telling me, a broxa sounds just about right on the money.”

“Okay,” Dean interrupted. “That’s great. But what I still want to know is, why the _hell_ are there goats loose in the middle of the city? I mean, it’s common sense right?” He gestured in the general direction of the motel window. “If you don’t want your goats being sucked dry by some creepy, wanna-be vampire bat—”

“It’s a demonic bird, you idiot.”

“Whatever, Bobby. All I’m saying is. If you don’t want your goats sucked dry, lock up your damn goats!” He turned to Sam. “Am I right?”

“Well Dean, it’s hard to argue in the face of such fantastic logic,” Sam said.

Dean scowled at him. “Shut up.”

“Are you two going to listen to me tell you how to kill this thing? Or are we just going to listen to Farmer Dean yammer on about his damn goats?”

Dean slumped down on the bed. “Yeah, sorry Bobby. How do we gank it?”

“Well,” said Bobby. “The broxa likes to shapeshift at night to steal goat milk and drink the blood.”

“That is actually disgusting,” said Sam.

“But,” continued Bobby, “during the day they tend to take the form of a person. A woman, usually. Figure out who it is and, I’m guessing like for any kind of shifter, silver to the heart should do the trick. Regular bullets won’t do anything though.”

“You’re guessing?” Dean repeated. “Don’t you have anything better than a guess?”

“Hey, don’t you sass me, boy. These things aren’t exactly common. I’m working on it. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Says here that sometimes they don’t stay contented with just goat blood, so be careful. You only just got your ass healed up from your _last_ hunt.”

“Right,” Dean repeated. “All right. Thanks, Bobby.”

“No problem. Hey, you two hear anything from that guy you met? Castiel?”

Sam shook his head. “No, nothing.”

“Well, I’ll keep looking. But after World War II, these guys seem to have just disappeared. I did find one thing though. About the name. _Castiel_ isn’t exactly in the top twenty on bouncingbabies.com. Seemed worth a shot.”

“And?” Dean said, trying not to sound impatient but failing miserably.

“Castiel is the name of an angel. From everything I’ve read—which hasn’t been much, honestly—all their higher ups have angelic names. Means he’s one of their elites.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “Guess we shouldn’t piss him off, then."

“Yeah, yeah, genius. All I’m saying is, be careful, all right? This organization’s been around longer than just a rag-tag bunch of rabbis in the 30s and 40s. There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

“We’ll be careful, Bobby,” Sam said. Dean nodded in assent before realizing that Bobby couldn’t see him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay. Well, you boys have fun saving goats,” said Bobby. “I’ll call you back if I find anything else.”

“Thanks.” Sam hung up the phone. “So?”

Dean shrugged. “Guess we go hunt a broxa.”

Sam nodded. Then he sat back. “Shit."

“What?”

“You don’t think it can fly, do you?"

Dean’s eyes widened. “Well fuck,” he said. “I hope not.”

Twenty-four hours later, Dean’s hopes were all but destroyed.

“I told you we should have brought a net!” Sam shouted at him. Above them, the broxa shrieked and dove. Dean ducked as Sam shot wildly with his shotgun.

“Well as soon as you know where to get a some netting made out of pure silver, you let me know, okay!” Dean hollered back.

“This is not the time to be an asshole!” Sam retorted. He had managed to duct-tape his silver knife to a tree branch, and was now waving it around like a particularly useless spear.

“Shut up, Samantha!” Dean shot at the broxa and managed to hit its wing. “There, take tha—oh fuck.” The broxa, clearly irritated at having been shot, had turned around and was now aiming for Dean, talons bared.

“Dean!”

“I’ve got it!” Dean called. He ducked and rolled just as the broxa’s talons swiped the spot where his head had been. He popped up behind it and shot at it again. “Damn, Sammy, this thing just won’t die!"

“Do you have any ideas?” Sam yelled. “Because I’m open to suggestions at this point!”

“Not really!” Dean ducked again as the broxa swooped above and then came back at him from another angle. He wheeled around just in time to avoid being struck. Dean took a deep breath and gripped his gun as the broxa flapped around to set itself up for a third dive. “Come on,” he said under his breath. “Right in the heart this time.”

“At-eh-ra-ah ha-samvelg!” cried a new voice from behind. And like a pair of irons had been clapped around the creature’s wings, the broxa suddenly dropped out of the sky. It crashed into the earth barely a foot from Dean who, on what seemed to be pure instinct, shot it in the heart with a silver bullet. The broxa stilled.

“God damn,” said Dean, feelingly. “And also, what the ever-loving fuck just happened?” He turned, gun cocked.

“Hello,” said Castiel.

Dean boggled for a second. Then, after a moment or so of serious consideration, he lowered his gun. “You,” he said. He pointed at the broxa. “You did that?"

Castiel looked a little shifty. He held out a long knife. “Silver and cat blood,” he said. “Quickly, before it wakes.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but accepted the knife. “Ookay.” He raised the knife. “Do I want to know where you got the cat blood?”

Castiel blinked at him. “You should cut off its head,” he offered. “That would be the best.”

Dean’s left eye twitched. “Yeah, Cas. I think I got that part.” He turned back to the broxa.

“If you’re sure,” said Castiel, just as Dean was about to strike. He turned to Sam, who had come running up to them, missing Dean’s suddenly irate expression. “Hello, Sam."

“Uh,” said Sam. “Hi. Uh, Castiel. Did you—? Did you do that?”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Castiel continued, totally side-stepping the question.

“Oh.” Sam waved his hand. “No, uh. You’re free to drop by whenever, I guess…right, Dean?”

Dean grunted, now piling salt on top of the broxa’s corpse.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But really, what was that thing you did just now? Where you made the monster fall out of the sky?”

“Oh,” said Castiel. He looked down, then up again, expression wary. “I suppose I did. Why?”

“How did you do that?” Dean said. He lit a match and practically flung it onto the broxa. It immediately went up in flames. He stepped away, dusting off his hands. “And how did you know the thing about the cat blood and the silver?”

Castiel’s gaze flickered between the two. “It was just a simple incantation. To bind its wings.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. “An incantation? What, are you some kind of witch now, too?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Obviously not,” he said sharply. “I commanded it in the Angelic language. It had no choice but to obey. The power for that comes from within.” Then he paled. “Although,” he said, his stance wobbling a little. “I may have overdone it.”

“What do you mean—” Sam started to say, but cut himself off as Castiel abruptly lurched to the side and heaved. “Oh, gross.” He shook himself. “I mean, sorry man. You okay?”

“Not really,” Castiel muttered from the ground. He took a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. I just—my strength was already depleted before this. I should have known better.”

“Okay,” drawled Dean. “But if we could get back to the whole part where you apparently _speak angel_?”

Castiel glared at him. “You speak Latin.”

“That’s _so_ not the same thing.”

“Dean,” Sam broke in. “Come on, man. Look at him.” Dean gave his brother an are-you-serious patented Dean Winchester stare, before reluctantly turning back to Castiel. He rubbed at his temples.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll help you back to your car.”

Castiel slumped a little. “Actually, I took the bus here.”

“What? Why?”

Castiel looked defensive. “It’s important to support the city’s public transportation,” he said, voice on just this side of whiny.

Dean slapped his forehead. “Fine. We’ll give you a ride. Just—come on before the cops show up.”

And with that, he and Sam each grabbed one of Castiel’s clammy hands, and heaved him to his feet.

“Thank you,” said Castiel, looking both wobbly and also absurdly grateful.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean sighed. He placed an arm around Castiel’s waist to steady him, then paused. “No, really. Don’t.”

“Never,” Castiel promised, voice grave.

They hobbled their way back over to the car. When they reached it, Dean dug into his pocket for the keys, then threw them at Sam. Sam looked perplexed for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and unlocked the car. Dean struggled for a few second with Castiel’s practically dead weight, before stuffing him into the back seat. After a moment of consideration, he pulled the seatbelt around him and leaned over to click that in too.

“You okay to ride?” he asked Castiel.

Castiel mumbled something that might have been an affirmation. Dean eyed him with not a small amount of suspicion.

“Don’t you dare throw up in here,” he said. “If you have to, roll down a window or something.”

Castiel smiled a little, almost dopily. “You have a very nice car,” he slurred. “Nice…curved lines. Good for keeping demons out.”

“Ugh,” Dean said. “Just—don’t throw up, okay?” A thought occurred to him. “So, where did you say you were staying again?”

But by that point, Castiel was already out cold.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said Dean. He pounded a fist (but only lightly!) on the roof of the car. “Really?”

Sam popped his head out the window. “What?”

“He fell asleep,” Dean grumbled. “Or fainted. Or something.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “At least this way we can keep an eye on him.” He withdrew his head back inside.

Dean rolled his eyes. “At least this way, we can keep an eye on him,” he mimicked to himself in a quiet falsetto. Christ.

“I heard that,” Sam called.

“He’s sleeping in your bed,” Dean asserted. “Move over. I’m driving.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel was getting pretty tired of waking up from his own stupidity-induced blackouts. However, he was mostly certain that this was the first time he had woken to the smell of bacon sizzling. He opened his eyes to unfamiliar surroundings.  
   
“Where am I?” he groaned.  
   
Above him, Dean’s form swam into focus. “Apartment. Welcome to Craigslist hospitality.” He held out a steaming mug to Castiel. “Coffee?”  
   
Castiel sat up so quickly he nearly blacked out again. “Yes. _Please_.” He cradled his head in his hands for a moment, then reached for the mug.  
   
“Breakfast should be ready in a few. Bathroom’s over there.” Dean pointed.  
   
Castiel took a gulp of coffee and almost spat it back out again.  
   
“It’s hot, genius,” said Dean.  
   
“I notithed,” said Castiel, fanning his now burnt tongue.  
   
Dean shook his head. “Okay, like I said. Breakfast should be ready soon-ish. Come on over to the kitchen when you’re ready.” He made as if to leave the room, then paused. “Also, some dude named Gabriel texted you like forty times, so you might want to let him know that you’re alive or something.”  
   
He vanished into the hallway.  
   
As soon as Dean had left, Castiel put the coffee mug on the bedside table with a loud _thunk_ , and covered his face with his palms. This was a whole new realm of awful, right now. His head pounded, and his stomach churned. He was never using any sort of words of power ever again. That was it. He was swearing off. If something supernatural needed doing? Well, Castiel was just going to have to become a hedge-witch, that was all there was to it. His immortal soul could not be worth this, this—  
   
His phone buzzed. Castiel cast a weary glance at it. With a feeling of not-quite-impending doom, he pressed the call button and put it next to his ear.  
   
“Hello?” Lord, his voice sounded terrible even to him.  
   
“Where the hell have you been?” Gabriel demanded.  
   
“Sorry,” Castiel muttered. “There was a broxa.”  
   
The other end of the line got dangerously quiet. Castiel braced himself.  
   
“You mean to tell me that even after every single damn warning—every single one! You _still_ —”  
   
“It was kind of an emergency,” Castiel said.  
   
“Your life is kind of an emergency, you idiot!” Gabriel exploded. “After what happened the last time, you could have _died_ —“  
   
“I didn’t,” Castiel pointed out. Quite helpfully, he thought.  
   
“Shut up,” Gabriel snapped.  
   
Castiel scowled. “I had it under control.”  
   
“Don’t lie to me, Castiel. You’ve probably been in a coma for at least a day.” Gabriel just sounded tired now. “What will you do next time there’s an ‘emergency,’ hmm? You going to just risk everything to jump right in again?”  
   
He was right, Castiel thought, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying so. “The Winchesters wouldn’t let that happen,” he said instead, unable to think of any other way to alert Gabriel to the fact that he had found them. Certainly at least one of the brothers was listening in on this conversation. Possibly both.  
   
“So you found them, huh?” Gabriel said, sounding less than pleased for someone who would have good news to share with Michael. “Goody.”  
   
“Yeah,” Castiel said. His throat felt scratchy. He took another sip of coffee. “We were after the same broxa.”  
   
“Must’ve been why they stayed in town so long,” Gabriel mused. “Let the one heal from his injuries, and track down a second hunt.”  
   
“I suppose,” Castiel agreed.  
   
“All right, I’ll let Michael know. You do your thing. And, for the love of god, Castiel: do _not_ do anything stupid, all right? You know how much I hate the weather up there. I do not want to have to come rescue your scrawny ass.”  
   
“Please,” Castiel said, offended.  
   
“And don’t you dare fucking speak a word of Enochian,” Gabriel warned.  
   
“Gabe—”  
   
“That shit’s dangerous, Castiel! Especially for you. Just—don’t, all right? I have enough to worry about without adding you causing your own fucking death, okay?”  
   
Castiel was quiet for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t.”  
   
“I mean it, Cas.”  
   
Castiel huffed. “I understand, all right, Gabriel? I get it. Do my job, don’t get killed, no incantations.”  
   
“Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”  
   
“Okay,” said Castiel.  
   
Gabriel hung up the phone.  
   
Castiel managed to stagger into the kitchen about five minutes later, after an entirely too long hunt for his pants. Following his nose, he headed down the short hallway off of the room he’d been sleeping in, and found Sam sitting at a round wooden table by the window. He was reading a newspaper, but he must have heard Castiel come in because he quickly looked up.  
   
“Hey,” Sam greeted.  
   
Castiel slumped into the chair across from him. His legs felt like jelly. “Hello.”  
   
“How’re you feeling?”  
   
Castiel shrugged. _Don’t ask stupid questions_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. “Like I got hit by a truck,” Castiel said instead.  
   
“Huh,” Sam said. Castiel decided that the younger Winchester looked entirely too curious for Castiel’s comfort.  
   
“Uh,” said Castiel. “Thank you for the—you know.” He waved his hand back in the direction of the hallway. “I appreciate it.”  
   
Sam folded up his newspaper. He placed it on the table and took a bite of toast. Castiel watched as a dollop of marmalade jam dropped onto his plate while Sam reached out with his other hand for a mug. Sam took a sip of coffee. “We couldn’t really leave you there.”  
   
“It is appreciated,” Castiel repeated. He looked down at the table. “Really.”  
   
Coming into the kitchen at just that moment, Dean grunted. “You mind telling us what the hell you were doing there, anyway?” He snagged a piece of bacon off the platter. “Kind of a shitty place to take a nice evening walk.”  
   
Castiel looked up just in time to see Sam shoot Dean a look. “Dean,” he said, although Castiel couldn’t really tell if it was an admonishment for bringing up the subject, or for stealing the food.  
   
“What?” Dean defended, mouth full. Sam narrowed his eyes at him.  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Just because I’m not a Hunter doesn’t mean I don’t hunt.”  
   
“Uh huh,” Dean said. “Really.” He leaned against the counter, giving Castiel what felt like a less than flattering once-over. It did not feel friendly. Castiel gave him his best blank stare in return.  
   
“Really,” he deadpanned.  
   
“Right,” Dean said. “Which explains exactly why you just so happened to be on the exact same hunt as us, on the exact same night, at the exact same _time_ —”  
   
Castiel squinted. “You calling me a liar?”  
   
Dean crossed his arms. “Should I be?”  
   
“O-kay,” Sam interrupted. “Castiel, would you like some breakfast?” He shoved Dean out of the way with a muttered “Quit being a fucking asshole,” and set a plate down in front of Castiel. “I assumed a negative on the bacon,” he said. Although not subtle, his movement at least had the effect of dissipating the tension in the air. It vanished altogether when Dean sat down into an empty chair with his own breakfast plate.  
   
“Thank you,” Castiel said, meaning it. He dug into his eggs and toast. He was aware of the brothers watching him as he ate, though Dean’s gaze was far more suspicious than Sam’s. He took a gulp of orange juice.  
   
“Jesus, man. Slow the fuck down,” Dean said, after a moment.  
   
“Sorry,” Castiel said. He was always ravenous after anything that required the use of Enochian. Also, the more food he stuffed in his mouth, the less he had to talk.  
   
“Lay off, Dean,” Sam said. But the next words were directed to Castiel. “You know how spellwork works up an appetite.”  
   
Castiel froze. Carefully, he swallowed his eggs and placed his half-eaten toast back on his plate. He looked up to see Sam and Dean Winchester regarding him with equally intense gazes.  
   
Castiel waited for a moment, letting the silence stretch out to just the other side of discomforting. It was a strategy that had worked well for him in the past. Finally, he tilted his head. “What do you want to know?”  
   
Dean blinked.  
   
“Enochian won’t work for you,” Castiel added, nonchalant as could be. “Not like it does for me. Your attempts would be…lesser.”  
   
Sam frowned defensively. “And why’s that?”  
   
Castiel pursed his lips. “It’s difficult to explain,” he hedged. “The best way to think of it is,” he shrugged, “trade secret.” He took another sip of orange juice and made an appreciative hum. “Is this fresh squeezed?”  
   
Dean threw his hands in the air. “Oh, come on,” he said to Sam. “And you told me I was the one being an asshole.” He made to move right next to Castiel, possibly to get very all up on his business, but Castiel beat him to it.  
   
He stood, pushing his chair back, and crowding uncomfortably close to Dean. “I have saved your life twice now,” he said. “I am not some common killer poaching your hunts. You should show me some respect.”  
   
He stepped back abruptly and turned to Sam. “I appreciate the hospitality you have shown me,” he said. “I can show myself out.”  
   
And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall. After another moment, they heard the sound of the front door banging shut.  
   
Sam and Dean looked at each other.  
   
“What the hell?” Dean said.  
   
“Guess you pissed him off.”  
   
“I pissed _him_ off?” Dean repeated. “Are you fucking kidding me? ‘You should show me some respect.’ Jesus fucking Christ. What a dick.”  
   
“We did, kind of accuse him of witchcraft,” Sam pointed out.  
   
“Perfectly legitimately!” Dean retorted.  
   
“I’m just saying. You’d probably be offended if some guys called you a witch too.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Oh, come _on_ Dean. You probably would’ve punched—you.”  
   
Dean scowled. “Not if I fed me breakfast first. That’s just fucking rude.”  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever dude. We’ll probably never see him again anyway.”  
   
Dean shook his head. “No need to pretend you’re not disappointed. I know you wanted to learn that angel shit he was talking about.”  
   
“Oh, and it’s a crime to want to learn new things now?”  
   
“When it’s fucking witchcraft it is.”  
   
Sam stopped sponging up the table long enough to cross his arms over his chest. “He said it wasn’t witchcraft.”  
   
“Oh, and you _believe_ him?”  
   
“Didn’t look like witchcraft.”  
   
“Now Sammy,” Dean said as he began to soap up the breakfast dishes. “I know you were always disappointed that you didn’t get your Hogwarts letter—“  
   
Sam threw his sponge at him. “You’re such a dick.”  
   
“—and also Dad would have salted and burned it even if you had—”  
   
“Fuck you.”  
   
The doorbell rang. They stilled.  
   
Dean turned to Sam. “Were we expecting company?”  
   
The doorbell rang again.  
   
“No,” Sam replied. He reached for the gun on top of the microwave.  
   
“Think it’s Castiel again?” Dean muttered as they crept down the hallway.  
   
“Maybe he left his flasher coat,” Sam whispered back.  
   
The doorbell rang for a third time. With Dean flush against the wall next to the door, gun at the ready, Sam eased his way to look in the peephole. As soon as he saw who stood at the other side of the door however, he rolled his eyes and let out a breath. Dean raised an eyebrow.  
   
“It’s Leo.”  
   
Dean exhaled. “Christ. How’d he find us?”  
   
“No fucking clue,” Sam sighed as he unlocked the door. It swung inwards, hitting Dean on the shoulder.  
   
Leo Ganem looked up at Sam. He was shorter and stockier than the Winchesters, his gaze very sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carried a leather briefcase. “Sam, Dean,” he said, adjusting his tie. “Nice to see you again.”  
   
“We’re not going, Leo,” Sam said, even as he moved to let him into the apartment.  
   
“Hey, Leo, how was your flight here? Hope your trip back to Kansas is just as nice.”  
   
“Hello Dean.” Leo shut the door behind him.  
   
“You know, this is too many visits from secret societies today—” Sam hurriedly stepped on Dean’s foot. “—by which I mean your one visit, of course,” Dean added lamely. “Why are you here, again?”  
   
“The initiation, Winchester,” Leo snapped. “You’re due. Both of you.”  
   
“Ooh, the initiation, Sammy,” Dean said. “I can’t believe we forgot.”  
   
Sam shook his head and turned back to Leo. “You know our position on that,” he said, voice steady.  
   
“And you know ours,” Leo returned.  
   
“Well,” said Dean, glancing between Sam and Leo. “Now that everyone’s all knowledgeable and shit, time for you to go be all secret with someone else. I hear there are a couple of legacies hiding in the Museum of Natural History.”  
   
“You’re not funny, Winchester. This is serious.”  
   
“I happen to think I’m hilarious,” Dean said. His voice got both softer and colder. “But in all seriousness, Leo, old buddy. You know how Sam and I feel about the Men of Letters.”  
   
“Too bad.” Leo jerked his head. “The kitchen this way? I don’t like talking in the hallway.”  
   
“Oh, sure, just come right in,” Dean said as Leo brushed past him.  
   
The corner of Sam’s right eye twitched. “Come on,” he muttered to Dean, who made a face even as they trailed Leo back into the kitchen.  
   
“Three plates, huh?” Leo said. “Were you expecting me? I’m flattered.”  
   
“Nah,” said Dean. “Sammy got lucky last night. And he’s just such a gentleman.”  
   
Sam scowled at Dean, but quickly returned his face to neutral as soon as Leo looked at him.  
   
“Uh huh,” Leo said. He dropped his briefcase on the table and clicked it open. “I have paperwork for you two.”  
   
“Oh no,” Dean deadpanned. “I’ve lost it already. Can I get a second copy?”  
   
“Funny.” Leo reached inside for two manila envelopes. He handed one each to Sam and Dean. “Don’t,” he said, “Lose these.”  
   
“Dude, this is the twenty-first century, couldn’t you guys just send a frickin’ email?”  
   
“You can’t sign an email.”  
   
“Yeah, pretty sure I can.”  
   
Leo leveled his gaze at Dean, eyes intent behind his glasses. “Not in blood you can’t.”  
   
Sam nearly dropped his envelope. “We are _not_ signing anything in blood. No way.”  
   
Leo closed up his briefcase again. He fiddled with his tie until it sat straight. “I didn’t make the rules.”  
   
“How many times do we have to fucking say it?” Dean demanded. “We’re. Not. Joining. The. Men. Of. Letters. Capisce?”  
   
Leo rested his hands on the briefcase before swinging around to frown at the both of them. “How ungrateful.”  
   
Dean’s jaw hardened. “Excuse you?”  
   
“Ungrateful,” Leo snapped again. “Selfish little boys. After everything the Order has done for you. Rather than repay the debt like men, you throw it back in our faces. You would rather cavort like wild, uncivilized Hunters—”  
   
“Hold it right there, that’s my mom’s family you’re talking about.”  
   
“—than take your place as Henry Winchester’s heirs.”  
   
The knuckles of Sam’s hand were white as he clutched his envelope. “Ever consider the possibility that we don’t _want_ to be Henry Winchester’s heirs?”  
   
Leo gave him what could only be described as a thoroughly frosty glance. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before we took you in. Or do you think the Campbell clan would have been equally charitable with two orphaned boys?”  
   
“Get out,” Dean said.  
   
Leo gathered his briefcase. “The Initiation will take place during the Spring Equinox. I suggest you show up this year. The Order is tired of being lenient.”  
   
Sam’s lips thinned. “And what will happen to us if we don’t?”  
   
Leo barely spared him a glance as he headed back down the hallway. “Come now, Sam. I know you paid more attention than Dean in your lessons. The Order doesn’t just let non-initiates run around with all their information. What do you think will happen?”  
   
“You wouldn’t kill us,” Dean said flatly.  
   
“Hmm,” said Leo, noncommittally. He opened the door and stepped out. “I wonder.” He slammed the door behind him.  
   
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam.  
   
“Fuck,” Sam said.  
   
“Bunch of dicks,” Dean agreed.  
   
“Do you think he’s serious?”  
   
Dean snorted. “No.” A pause. “Maybe.”  
   
“Damn it.” Sam slumped against the door. “This is not happening.”  
   
“It’s not going to happen.” Dean rubbed his temples. “I promise, Sam. It’s not going to happen.”  
   
Sam looked at him skeptically. “And how, exactly, do you plan to stop it?”  
   
“Jesus, Sammy. Have a little faith.” Dean scowled. He pushed himself back to an upright position from where he had been leaning against the wall. “You sound like you want to become their lifelong Illuminati minions.”  
   
Sam glared at him, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Shut up, Dean. You know I don’t want that to happen any more than you do. I just can’t think of any way to get around this that doesn’t involve doing what they want. Or dying.”  
   
Dean tilted his head consideringly. “Well—”  
   
“That’s not an option,” Sam bit out.  
   
“All right, jeeze. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”  
   
“That’s not funny, Dean.”  
   
“You’re like, the third person who’s told me I’m not funny today. I’m going to get a complex.”  
   
“That’s because you’re not.”  
   
“You’re not, bitch.”  
   
“Oh, great comeback. Real mature.”  
   
Bickering, they trooped their way back to the kitchen.  
   
“Where’s my laptop?”  
   
“Dunno.”  
   
Sam glowered a little, then disappeared back down the hallway. He reemerged a few minutes later, laptop tucked protectively under one arm. “I told you to quit borrowing it.”  
   
Dean shrugged, settling down with the last slice of bacon (“Gross, Dean, that’s been out for like an hour”) into one of the kitchen chairs. “Don’t make your password so easy to guess then.”  
   
Sam stopped for a second in the middle of typing in his password. Then, teeth obviously grinding, continued to log in.  
   
Dean leaned forward. “What are you looking for?”  
   
Sam wet his lips. He stared at the screen. “Loophole of some kind.”  
   
Dean frowned. “What kind?” Would the Men of Letters even show up on a google search? Dean didn’t think so.  
   
“I don’t know,” Sam said, sure to enunciate every syllable as slowly as possible. “Maybe some past case where an apprentice got out of being an initiate without dying?” His voice rose a bit at the end. He rubbed at his temples.  
   
“God, you’re hormonal,” Dean muttered. Sam pretended not to hear. “Where are you looking?”  
   
The flicker of a smirk graced Sam’s face. “I scanned in some documents before we left the bunker that last time,” he said. “I thought they might be useful for research. I’m going to start there.”  
   
Dean whistled, actually taken aback. He stood, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Sticking it to the Man, Sam. I’m impressed. How many do you have?”  
   
Sam brushed Dean’s hand away. “About fifty.”  
   
In spite of himself, Dean felt his eyebrows climb. “All right then. Anything, uh, I can do?”  
   
“I don’t know. Call Bobby or something. Maybe he has some ideas.”  
   
“Okay.” Dean made to reach for his phone, and then hesitated. “We should get new phones.”  
   
Sam looked up. “You think that’s how Leo found us?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Either way they could also be tapping them.”  
   
“Yeah, okay. Burner phones for now, you think?”  
   
“Think so,” Dean agreed. He reached for his keys. “See you later.”  
   
“Don’t get the ones that only do T-9,” Sam called as Dean slipped out the door. “Get the sliding ones.”  
   
“I’ll get whatever I fucking want,” Dean hollered back. He loosened his shoulders. Whatever. Flip phones were fucking awesome.

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

   
After leaving the Winchesters’ apartment in a not entirely faked huff, Castiel did not go far. He knew that any of his bretheren, Gabriel for instance, would have handled the situation differently—probably better than he ever could. At the very least, someone else would have talked their way into staying in the apartment for longer than ten minutes. The least Castiel could do was stay where he could watch the doorway.  
   
Castiel’s shoulders slumped. It wasn’t like he didn’t _want_ to do his job, but everything always seemed to go wrong when he tried to talk his way into anything. People were just so difficult sometimes. Well, all the time, Castiel admitted to himself, but Dean especially made no sense. One moment he was bringing Castiel coffee, the next, he was accusing him of witchcraft. What on earth was Castiel supposed to do with that?  
   
This was all Dean Winchester’s fault, Castiel decided in a fit of complete and total rationality. Dean Winchester was annoying and disrespectful. Obviously Castiel could not be expected to put up with such nonsense. He was completely justified in leaving the way he did.  
   
Yes, Michael would definitely love to hear that one.  
   
Castiel’s ruminations were interrupted when he spied another man, dressed fairly decently in a suit and toting a briefcase, exit the building. The man was grumbling to himself as he hurried down the steps. Castiel frowned. He recognized him; he had entered the building only a few minutes prior. Strange, to be leaving again so quickly.  
   
Something about the man struck him as oddly familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Just as Castiel was making up his mind to follow him, if only to set that nagging feeling at ease, the door opened again. This time, Dean Winchester peered out.  
   
Castiel immediately settled himself back down again. He watched with sharp eyes as Dean glanced back and forth. It became clear when he spotted the same man Castiel had—his body stiffened, and he stepped back into the shadow of the doorway, waiting until the man had passed from sight completely. Then, he strode off in the opposite direction. Castiel took a fortifying breath, and followed.  
   
Dean led him on a merry chase towards downtown, resulting in two harried attempts to catch the lightrail, and around several camps of the local homeless population, before finally popping into Pioneer Place. Castiel slipped in after him, ducking behind the guy dressed as a grey statue, conveniently swept along by a gaggle of Japanese tourists. Just barely avoiding an unplanned visit to the food court, Castiel glanced around until he spotted his quarry near the ground floor.  
   
A phone kiosk. Dean Winchester had led him to a phone kiosk in a mall. Castiel scowled a little.  The man couldn’t even be decent and lead him to a typical mall, the kind overcrowded with teenagers and screaming families of six, and easy to blend into the background. No, this had to be the swanky mall, filled with overpriced boutiques in rounded levels.  
   
Well, whatever Dean was doing, it looked like he was going to be a while at it and Castiel couldn’t just stand around watching him from above. Someone was bound to notice eventually. He stepped back from the balcony, looking for somewhere inconspicuous to sit.  
   
Ten minutes later, settled in an uncomfortable metal chair just outside the storefront of a coffee shop, Castiel bitterly raised his five-dollar coffee to his lips. What was Dean even doing? How long did it take to buy a stupid phone, anyway? He leaned forward, intrigued despite himself, by Dean’s animated conversation with the phone vendor. What—was he haggling? Was that even allowed in the mall?  
   
A hand landed on his shoulder. Castiel jerked reflexively, spilling hot coffee into his lap. He turned, but his growl died on his lips when he spied his assailant.  
   
It was the man in the suite. He met Castiel’s eyes calmly, like they were old acquaintances having a surprise meet-up. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and measured. “Why are you following Dean Winchester?”  
   
It was only Castiel’s lifetime of holding a blank expression in the face of his family’s antics that saved him from complete embarrassment.  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He reached for the dispenser and pulled out a handful of napkins. He dabbed at the offending coffee stain. “I don’t even know who you are.” _Asshole_ , he added silently.  
   
“Nice try, Castiel,” said the man. “What is Michael up to?”  
   
Castiel blinked in surprise. He stood up, the wet napkins tumbling to the floor. “Who are you?” he said.  
   
The man in the suit studied him. “Tell Michael that our internal matters are none of his business.”  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
   
“Back off,” the man repeated. “I won’t tell you again.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes hardened. “Are you threatening me?”  
   
“Don’t test me, Castiel.”  
   
“Jesus Christ,” said a new voice, “can’t a man go shopping without someone stalking his ass?”  
   
As one, Castiel and the man in the suit turned. Dean Winchester had evidently finished his phone business. He stood before them, Verizon bag in one hand, Jamba Juice in the other.  
   
“Seriously Leo, I’m flattered, but,” and here he took a loud slurp before batting his lashes at the other man, “I’m just not that into you. Okay?”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. He ignored the uncomfortable feeling of cooling coffee pressed against his stomach. “Yes, _Leo_ ,” he said. “He’s just not that into you.”  
   
Dean gave Castiel a sidelong glare while Leo, apparently, was reaching the end of his rope.  
   
“Buying disposable cell phones is not going to stop this, Dean.” He pointed to Castiel, “and neither is fraternizing with one of Michael’s pawns. Who, in case you didn’t notice, was following you.”  
   
Dean shrugged. “I can’t help that people do that. It’s hard to suppress this much raw awesome.”  
   
Leo rubbed at his temples. He looked suddenly less like a threat and more like an overworked schoolteacher. Castiel did not believe the change for a minute. “You’re unbelievable.”  
   
“I know,” Dean said smugly.  
   
“Hmm.” Leo gave him a hard look. “I will see you in a few months.”  
   
“No,” Dean said. “Pretty sure you won’t.”  
   
Leo ignored him, turning back to Castiel. “Tell Michael to stop interfering with our business, Castiel,” he repeated. “I mean it.”  
   
“You owe me another coffee,” said Castiel.  
   
Leo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I give up. You two deserve one another.” And with that, he straightened his jacket and strode off. Dean and Castiel watched him go.  
   
After a moment of silence, Dean spoke. “So,” he said. “Pawn of Michael. That’s practically foreplay for Leo. He must really like you. How’d you two lovebirds meet?”  
   
“I can assure you that I’ve never met that man before in my life,” Castiel said stiffly.  
   
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Well he certainly seemed to know who you were. You been holding out on us, Castiel? I’m hurt.”  
   
Castiel scowled. “I don’t know how he knew my name. And what does it matter to you, anyway?” He reached into the container again and dabbed at his shirt with a new napkin, the movements a bit forlorn now that the coffee had clearly set.  
   
“Who’s Michael?”  
   
“I thought you were one of the Men of Letters.” Castiel sighed and, giving the shirt up as a lost cause for now, buttoned up his jacket to hide the stain.  
   
“Spill, Cas.”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. _Rude_. “Why should I? And don’t call me that.”  
   
“Because I just got Leo Ganem off your back,” Dean said patiently. He reached across the table to pick up some of the sodden napkins. “You want me to bring him back again? Dude’s like a leach. An annoying, disproving leach.” He threw the napins into the nearby trash.  
   
“Wait—“ Castiel said. He uncrossed his arms. “Did you just say ‘Ganem’?”  
   
Dean stepped back. “Maybe we should talk somewhere that’s not here,” he suggested.  
   
Castiel looked down at the table, considering his options. He didn’t want to go back to the Winchesters. In all honesty, what he really wanted was another cup of coffee, a clean shirt, and then to go back to bed. Already, his temples were beginning to pound. But, he also knew what Michael wanted. And what Michael wanted, Michael tended to get. After a moment, Castiel nodded. “All right.”  
   
 And so they wound their way north through downtown, back to the Winchesters’ Craigslist Hospitality.  
   
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, banging in through the door. Castiel followed him like a reluctant shadow into the kitchen. “Guess who I ran into at the mall?”  
   
“Bono,” Sam said, his back still to them.  
   
“Hello Sam,” Castiel said. “I apologize for my earlier rudeness.  
   
Sam slowly turned. He eyed Castiel, then Dean. “Did you at least get the good phones?” he asked finally.  
   
“Obviously,” Dean said, dumping the plastic shopping back on the table. “But more importantly, guess who’s buddies with our friend Leo?”  
   
Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Ah,” he said, suddenly looking at Castiel with a great deal more interest.  
   
“We are not ‘buddies’,” Castiel said, for what felt like the thousandth time. “I had never met him before, as I told you, and I only recognize the name as belonging to one of the more prominent families in the Men of Letters.”  
   
Sam leaned forward. “You seem to know an awful lot about the Men of Letters.”  
   
“It stands to reason,” Castiel said scathingly, “as there can only be so many secret societies in the world before things start to become crowded.”  
   
“Uh huh. Sam, in your studies of Cas’s buddies, you ever heard of some guy named Michael?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “No.”  
   
“He is the head of our order,” Castiel snapped. “For god’s sake, you two are honestly the worst Men of Letters representatives I’ve ever run into.”  
   
“That’s because we’re not Men of Letters, Castiel,” Sam said. “We told you it was complicated.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “I don’t understand. You’re Winchesters.”  
   
“It’s not important,” Dean said. He toyed with the cell phone packaging.  
   
Castiel fixed him with a glare. “Yes it is.”  
   
“No, it’s not.”  
   
“Actually,” Sam said slowly, “It might be.”  
   
Dean dropped the packaging and twisted to look at Sam. “What?”  
   
Surprised, Castiel’s gaze switched back and forth between the two Winchesters.  
   
“Think about it, Dean,” Sam said. “He knows things that _Leo doesn’t know_.”  
   
Dean jabbed a finger at Castiel. “No, Sammy. Also, he’s here to spy on us. Why am I the only one here who finds that to be a problem?”  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. “Castiel, are you spying on us?”  
   
“Um,” said Castiel.  
   
“See?”  
   
“Fine. Castiel, are you planning to kill us?”  
   
“I wasn’t exactly planning on it, no.” Castiel said.  
   
“See?” Sam parroted back.  
   
Dean threw his hands up in the air. “That doesn’t make it better, Sam.”  
   
“I don’t understand,” Castiel admitted. “Where are you going with this?”  
   
“You’re the one who brought him back here in the first place.”  
   
“Yeah, because I thought he might have some dirt on Leo.”  
   
Castiel was beginning to feel a twitch building in his right eye. “I’m right here,” he growled. “Tell me what you want from me, or I’m leaving right now.”  
   
Sam turned away from Dean so fast Castiel thought he might get whiplash. “I want you to teach me,” he said.  
   
Dean’s eyes bugged out. “Sam—”  
   
Whatever Castiel had been expecting, it was not that. It was enough of a surprise to make him pause. “Teach you what, exactly?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “Anything the Men of Letters might not know. Anything that might give us an advantage over them.”  
   
Castiel frowned not sure if he was understanding Sam correctly. “You want me to teach you what our initiates learn,” he stated slowly. He shook his head. “I told you earlier—your attempts would be lesser. The effect would not be the same.”  
   
Dean crossed his arms. “Well don’t sugarcoat it.”  
   
Sam tilted his head. “But they’d still work, right? Just to a smaller degree?”  
   
“I suppose,” Castiel said doubtfully. “It’s never been done before, someone not—of us. Learning Enochian.” He paused. “That is what you meant, correct?”  
   
“Yes!” Sam nodded fervently, seemingly very enthused at the idea, while behind him, Dean shook his head like it was going out of style. “Like what you did before, with the broxa. The Men of Letters doesn’t have anything like that. You know the kind of advantage that could give us?”  
   
“I still don’t understand.” The lines in Castiel’s forehead deepened. “Why would you need a so-called ‘advantage’ over the Men of Letters?” He tilted his gaze up to the ceiling, then back at the Winchesters. “They are a righteous organization, by all accounts.”  
   
“The Men of Letters took us in after our father was killed,” Sam said. “That doesn’t make them family. They sure as hell didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts.”  
   
“Oh sure, Sammy, spill the whole sob story right here,” Dean muttered. “How about you post it to facebook?” He sat down at the table, toying with the salt shaker, his face like a thundercloud.  
   
Castiel knew now that he would have to tread carefully. “It’s not my place to judge their actions,” he said. “And it is not my place to possibly endanger the Men of Letters by teaching you our ways.”  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. “We’re not trying to endanger them—we just want to be able to defend ourselves against them.”  
   
“Sam, he said no.”  
   
“If we become full initiates then we’ll have to answer to them for the rest of our lives,” Sam pressed.  
   
“I…and that is…bad?” Castiel hazarded.  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “They’re dicks. We’re hunters. We can’t be under their control, it interferes with the job.”  
   
Castiel squinted. “You value your independence? Is that what you’re telling me?”  
   
Sam sighed. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “We can’t just tell them no. We have to be able to back it up. To defend ourselves against them.”  
   
“To defend yourselves,” Castiel repeated.  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Castiel scoffed. That, he knew, was patently ridiculous. “The Men of Letters would never harm you. You’re Winchesters.”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “I don’t think you know them as well as you think you do,” Dean said.  
   
Sam pushed forward and lay his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel resisted the urge to shrug it off. “If you teach me what you know, we stand a better chance. Come with us.”  
   
Castiel moved away. He looked out the window at the winter drizzle and the movement of people below. “It’s not my place,” he repeated. “I’m under oath, the same as you would be. I can’t just _teach_ you.”  
   
Sam shrugged. “I’m sure we can work around that. What’s the wording on the oath, exactly?”  
   
“Are you joking?” Castiel said incredulously. “No.”  
   
“What if you got permission?” Dean said suddenly.  
   
Sam and Castiel both blinked at him. Under their combined gaze, he moved back to toying with the salt shaker again, looking a little self-conscious. “Your buddy Michael’s interested in us for whatever reason. Probably because we’re just so good at pissing off Leo.” He smirked a little. “Maybe he’ll give you permission if it means keeping an eye on things.”  
   
Castiel’s jaw worked. “You want me to tell Michael what you’re doing?” he finally managed.  
   
“Well, no need to go into detail,” Dean said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “But a few of the right facts here and there?”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms, staring down his nose at Dean. “I’m not going to make a deal to betray my own order.”  
   
“Who said anything about betraying?” Sam spread his hands, moving easily around the table to Castiel. “Call your boss. I would bet that us staying out of the Men of Letters somehow aligns with his long-term goals, if he sent you out here to keep an eye on the action.”  
   
Castiel stared hard at him. This was ridiculous. There was no way Michael would ever condone teaching the Winchesters, no matter what ‘plans’ he had for them. Castiel pursed his lips. But if there really was no chance, he thought, then there was no harm in asking.  
   
“Fine,” he said abruptly. “I will speak to Michael. Give me a moment.”  
   
Sam smiled. “Of course.”  
 


	4. Chapter 4

“Enochian is not like spellcasting,” Castiel said. “Similarly to witchcraft, it does require the energy of your soul. But,” and here he glared at Dean, stressing the next few words, “ _unlike_ witchcraft, there are no demon deals involved.”  
   
“So…why does it work then?” Sam asked. He sat on top of a picnic table at an empty rest stop along I-82 while Castiel paced back and forth in front of him.  
   
“Enochian is the language of the angels. Even when spoken by mortals, the words still have power. You must just learn to channel it.”  
   
Dean scratched his chin. “Cas, man. I’ve been hunting all my life and I have never seen, nor heard of anyone else seeing, an angel.”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “I fail to see how that is my problem.”  
   
“There is a ton of angel lore though,” Sam offered.  
   
“No such thing.”  
   
“You are deliberately trying to provoke me,” Castiel turned away. “Believe me, angels exist.”  
   
“You ever met one?” Dean challenged.  
   
_Pain. Bright white light burning in front of him. Castiel fell to his knees. “Please,” he begged. He shielded his eyes. “Please!”_  
   
Castiel turned back to the Winchesters. “No,” he said. “I have not.”  
   
“Well, then—”  
   
“Enochian is a difficult language to learn. Its symbols must be drawn with precision, or else the spell will not go as intended.” He chose his next words carefully. “There could be…consequences.”  
   
Dean made a face. “Such as?”  
   
“Death,” Castiel said flatly. “Or permanent injury. The body is not built to hold the kind of energy that Enochian carries. It can very easily blow up in your face.” He noticed, to his satisfaction, that Dean now appeared slightly repentant. “That’s why this sort of thing requires years of study,” he added, just to drive the point home.  
   
Sam looked a little uncomfortable. “And you have some books or something you’re going to give us so we don’t mess it up, right?”  
   
Castiel looked heavenward. “Yes. Michael has given me leave to borrow some…textbooks.” He returned his gaze to Sam, still seeming a bit disgruntled. “He said he would have them sent to me whenever I could give him an address.” Castiel gave up on the pacing and leaned against an oak. “I can teach you some of the language and symbols for now. When the books come, it should go more quickly.”  
   
Dean’s phone rang, and he hopped off of the table. “Hold on a sec,” he said, before drifting a little ways away. Sam refocused on Castiel.  
   
“How quickly is ‘quickly’?”  
   
“It depends on you.” Castiel shrugged. “Some people never pick it up. Others understand it instantly.”  
   
Sam sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Can you at least give me an estimate? Like, how long did it take you?” He clasped his hands together, earnest.  
   
Castiel’s gaze flickered away. “I’m not a good example.”  
   
“Come on,” Sam wheedled, as Dean strode back up to them.  
   
“Bobby’s got a case for us,” he said, shoving his phone back into his jeans pocket. “Someone’s been stealing cats in Moscow by the dozens.”  
   
This pronouncement was met with blank stares from both Castiel and Sam.  
   
“Uh, Moscow?” Sam ventured.  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Idaho, dude.”  
   
Sam scowled. “I knew that,” he said. He swung his legs around and climbed off of the picnic table. “Be right back,” he called, as he headed towards the rest stop building.  
   
“How long do you think this case will take?” Castiel asked.  
   
Dean pursed his lips. “Can’t really be sure,” he said. “Sounds like witches though. At least a couple of days, maybe.”  
   
“I hate witches,” Castiel muttered, so quietly that for a moment Dean thought he had misheard. He scuffed the dirt with the toe of his shoe. “But if we’re going to be there for a while, I can ask Michael to send me the books.”  
   
“Do what you want,” Dean said.  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “This is for your benefit. I don’t have to teach you anything.”  
   
“No,” said Dean. “This is for Sam’s benefit. You’re teaching him.”  
   
“Of course,” Castiel said, voice dry as the dirt beneath his feet. “And it’s of no use to you whatsoever.”  
   
“Whatever,” Dean said. He adjusted his jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just, stay out of the way during the case, okay? We can’t have you screwing around when we’re trying to work.” Even as he said it, Dean knew he was being a little bit unfair, but he was tired of Castiel parading his oh-so-superior knowledge around in front of an increasingly enamored Sam. Was it too much to ask to be allowed a moment away from Castiel’s Academy Of Angelic Bullshit?  
   
Castiel’s reaction was no worse than he could have hoped for. His eyebrows shot up in affront. “Screwing around?” he repeated. He leaned in closer to Dean, stopping just short of grabbing the lapels of his jacket. “I know you don’t trust me,” he said heatedly, “But it’s absurd that you don’t trust in my abilities.” His jaw clenched. “Or have I not saved your life twice now?”  
   
Dean’s face reddened. “Only because you barged in to mess everything up,” he retorted.  
   
“To save your life!” Castiel hissed back.  
   
Dean looked as if he were gearing up to snarl a proper response, but stopped as he spotted Sam coming back outside. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw it too. He stepped away, breathing heavily through his nose.  
   
“I’m going to go wait in the car,” he said through what was obviously a forced calm. “Feel free to join when you’ve removed your head from your ass.”  
   
Dean’s jaw dropped. “What—but that’s _my_ car,” he managed to sputter as Castiel walked away just before Sam reached them.  
   
“Dude,” said Sam. “You have got to stop pissing him off.”  
   
“I’m not doing anything!” Dean protested.  
   
“Yeah, right.” Sam began to crack the knuckles on his left hand. “It’s been a week and still every time I leave you two alone, this happens. You’ve got to let go of whatever beef you’ve got with the dude. He’s just trying to help.”  
   
“No,” Dean said. “He’s been ordered to help. I don’t trust him, Sammy.”  
   
Sam let go of his left hand and started on the knuckles of the right. “You don’t have to trust him. Just stop picking fights with him.”  
   
“I’m _not_ —”  
   
“Oh my god, Dean.” Sam laughed. “You totally are.”  
   
Dean made a face. “It’s not my fault he takes everything so personally. He needs to grow a thicker skin.”  
   
“Dean,” Sam pointed out, “making fights personal is kind of your thing.”  
   
“Well if he weren’t so high and mighty about everything, he wouldn’t take it personally,” Dean said, completely reasonably.  
   
Sam stared at him. “What are you talking about?” he asked finally.  
   
Dean suddenly found the peeling splinters on the picnic table very interesting. “He’s just always talking about his magical angel abilities, or whatever. It’s annoying.”  
   
“Dean, that’s what he’s supposed to do.” Sam looked more and more nonplussed. “We _asked_ him to do that.”  
   
“Well he doesn’t have to do it all the time, does he?” Dean threw a handful of picked splinters onto the ground. “It’s fucking irritating.”  
   
Sam blinked for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Oh my god,” he said. “Dean are you—are you jealous of him?”  
   
“What?” Dean whirled away. “No!”  
   
Sam was full on smiling now. “You are!” he crowed. “You’re totally jealous!”  
   
“I am not,” Dean asserted. “What do I have to be jealous about? The Men of Letters aren’t actively recruiting _him_.”  
   
“No,” Sam said slowly. “But he is kind of a badass with that Enochian thing he’s got going. Plus he did save your life twice. And he managed to tail you all the way to the mall before you even noticed—”  
   
“Sam,” Dean said, aghast. “He is not a badass. He’s uppity.”  
   
“I thought you liked him,” Sam went on. “You liked the teddy bear he brought you.” He grinned.  
   
Dean flushed. “I was drugged,” he muttered.  
   
“Uh huh.” Sam did not look convinced. He tilted his head. “And he’s not uppity. He’s just kind of shy.” He rubbed his hands together. “And a little bit awkward,” he admitted. “But I don’t think he means anything by it.”  
   
“He’s looking down his nose at us,” Dean insisted darkly.  
   
Sam huffed out something between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, whatever, dude,” he said. “I still think you’re just jealous of him.”  
   
“I’m not,” Dean repeated.  
   
“Sure.” Sam glanced toward the car. “You didn’t scare him off, did you? We still need to learn what he’s got.”  
   
“No,” Dean muttered, shoulders hunched. He pushed ahead of Sam. “He said he’d wait in the car.”  
   
“How long a drive to Moscow?” Sam asked as they headed over. Dean could see Castiel’s dark head through the tinted windows. He looked like he was reading something.  
   
_Nerd_ , Dean thought. After a moment’s pause, he realized that he had yet to answer Sam’s question. “A couple of hours, maybe,” he said. “We're already into Washington. Moscow’s just over the border.”  
   
They reached the car, Dean sliding into the driver’s seat.  He started the engine, very consciously not looking at Castiel.  
   
“Did Bobby say anything else about the case?” Sam asked as they exited the rest stop to get back on the freeway.  
   
Dean flicked his signal on. “Not really,” he said, easing into the next lane. “Just the cats. But it’s weird enough that he figured we should take a look. Might be some kind of preparation for something bigger.”  
   
Sam turned around to face the back. “Any thoughts, Castiel?”  
   
Castiel looked up. “About?”  
   
“The case,” Sam said. “Do you think it’s witches?”  
   
Castiel looked back down at his book. “Could be,” he said. He turned a page. “I was advised to stay out of hunting business though, so I doubt my input is worth listening to.”  
   
“Uh,” said Sam. He swung very slowly around to glare at his brother. “Dean,” he said sharply. Dean looked a little shifty.  
   
_Uppity_ , he mouthed.  
   
Sam crossed his arms.  
   
_Apologize_ , his look said, very clearly.  
   
Dean adjusted his hold on the steering wheel and stared straight out at the road ahead of them. “There’s no ice on the road, so once we get through the tri-cities, the traffic should be okay.”  
   
Sam made an inarticulate grumble of frustration.  
   
“You okay, Sammy?”  
   
“Just peachy, Dean,” Sam bit out.  
   
“Good.” Dean reached for the knob on the radio.  
   
Behind them, Castiel turned a page in his book.

 

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

   
“Ialprg!” Sam cried, hands outstretched. He stared hard at the candlewick, willing it to burst into flame.  
   
Nothing happened.  
   
“You need to focus more,” said Castiel behind him. He sipped his coffee.  
   
Sam’s entire body sagged. He turned to look at him. “This feels ridiculous,” he complained.  
   
“That’s not my problem.” Castiel took another sip. “You wanted to learn. I’m teaching you. Try again.”  
   
Sam sighed, drawing back his sweaty bangs with the back of his hand. He resettled himself. “Ialprg!” he said again, this time more slowly.  
   
“You have to will it to burn. The word alone isn’t enough. You need—” he hesitated.  
   
Sam slumped even more. “What?”  
   
“You need more spiritual energy,” Castiel said. His face brightened. “Maybe you should try meditation,” he suggested.  
   
“You’re kidding,” Sam said flatly.  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Your spiritual energy is very lacking,” he admitted. “I did sense this would be a problem.”  
   
Sam drew himself up, somewhat affronted. “What?” He pointed at himself. “No it’s not. I totally do yoga and stuff.”  
   
“I can help you improve it,” Castiel said, though by the way Sam scowled, he sensed his earnestness was not appreciated. He dipped his head decisively. “We should try meditating.”  
   
The door to their motel room opened. “Hey,” said Dean. He brushed snow off his jacket as he entered, though paused as he registered Sam’s face. “Having problems with Mr. Miyagi, Daniel-san?” he asked as he shut the door behind him.  
   
“No,” Sam said stiffly. “Everything’s going just fine—right Castiel?”  
   
“The word ‘fine’ has many definitions,” Castiel said. His gaze shifted away from Sam’s to study the ceiling with great interest.  
   
Dean chuckled. “You can’t ask Mr. Spock over there to lie, Sammy,” he informed him. He sat on one of the beds to take off his boots, tossing them in the corner by the door. That done, he stretched, yawning. “You know he’s a shitty liar.”  
   
“I am not,” Castiel protested, his voice now almost an identical whine to Sam’s.  
   
Dean gave him a look. “Dude, your lying face, your angry face, and your happy face are all the same thing.”  
   
“Then I should be a very good liar,” Castiel asserted.  
   
Dean flopped back onto the bed. It sagged beneath his weight, the paisley comforter somehow managing to look even uglier. “Well, you’re not.” He waved a loose hand at them. “Don’t mind me, just continue whatever you were doing.” He yawned again.  
   
“We were about to start a meditative session,” Castiel said, with great dignity. He crossed his legs and indicated for Sam to join him on the floor. Dean choked and sat up.  
   
“A what?”  
   
“Shut up, Dean,” said Sam, reluctantly folding himself into a position more conducive to meditation. He tried to make his legs behave themselves into the lotus, but gave up halfway through and settled for just sitting cross-legged.  
   
Dean cackled.  
   
“Close your eyes,” Castiel said firmly. “Focus on your breathing.”  
   
Biting his lip, Sam did as he was bid.  
   
“Your breath is your energy’s gateway to the physical world,” Castiel continued. “Feel how it fills your lungs; how your renewed blood moves through your body.”  
   
“Ommm,” Dean hummed from the bed.  
   
Sam screwed his eyes shut. He tried to concentrate on his breaths, to steady them in tune with Castiel’s.  
   
“Relax,” murmured Castiel.  
   
“Yessss,” hissed Dean. “Relax.”  
   
There was a moment of silence. Then.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said, very calmly. “Out.”  
   
“Oh, come on, Cas,” Dean grumbled. “You really are no fun.”  
   
Castiel breathed in. “Participate, or leave,” he said, eyes still shut. He breathed out.  
   
“Hey, I paid for this room.”  
   
“Out.”  
   
“But it’s snowing outside.”  
   
“Now.”  
   
“Fine.” Mumbling under his breath, Dean stood from the bed and stomped over to where he had thrown his boots, shoving his feet into them. He threw on his coat. “See if I bring you guys any dinner,” he said scathingly, as he slammed out of the room.  
   
Castiel inhaled again, then exhaled. “Listen to my breathing,” he said. “Hear how it sounds like the wind?”  
   
_Not really_ , thought Sam, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he kept his eyes closed, and tried to concentrate.  
   
What was probably about thirty minutes later, but felt more like thirty years later, Castiel called a halt to the meditation.  
   
“Do you feel calmer?” he asked.  
   
Sam opened his eyes and stretched a little. “I guess?” he ventured. He didn’t really know how he was supposed to feel. Except maybe a bit sore, and also that his foot was asleep.  
   
“Okay,” said Castiel. He unfolded his legs and pushed himself back to his feet. Sam followed suit. “Try again.”  
   
Sam eyed the candle. He tried to recapture the feeling he’d had during the meditation.  
   
“Breathe,” reminded Castiel.  
   
Sam inhaled. _Ialprg_ , he thought. _Burning flame. Burn for me._ “Ialprg.”  
   
Nothing.  
   
Sam stared harder. “Ialprg,” he said again. “Ialprg!”  
   
Still, the candle did not light. Sam sighed. “I guess I see what you mean when you said our attempts would be ‘lesser’” he said, mournful. But to his surprise, Castiel shook his head.  
   
“I have deliberately chosen incantations that you and your brother should be capable of.” Castiel frowned. “If he ever chooses to apply himself,” he added in a mutter.  Sam snickered, as Castiel continued, “Even those in the Judah Initiative who are not—“ he hesitated, and Sam could tell that he was trying to make a point without really saying anything. “Not part of our branch,” he settled on, “can summon fire. You just have to keep working on it. It’s only been a few days.”  
   
“What do you mean, ‘not part of your branch?’” Sam couldn’t help asking. Castiel looked down at his bare feet.  
   
“I’m probably not supposed to discuss the inner workings of the Judah Initiative.”  
   
Sam settled himself back onto one of the beds. “Did they ever tell you that?”  
   
Castiel gave him a look that said that he knew exactly what Sam was up to. “No,” he admitted.  
   
Sam cocked his head, aiming deliberately for casual as he said, “Does the branch thing have to do with who has the angelic names?”  
   
“Where did you hear that?”  
   
“Oh,” Sam said. “Bobby said something about it.”  
   
“Who is Bobby?” Castiel’s attention was now wholly on him. Sam scooted up a little bit on the bed, moving one of Dean’s shirts out of the way to lean against the headboard.  
   
“Old friend of our dad’s,” Sam said. He grinned. “But he’s got a library like you wouldn’t believe.”  
   
“I see.” But if anything, Castiel looked a little discomfited. “And he found this information in one of his books?”  
   
“Yeah.” Sam watched as Castiel moved over towards his suitcase, beginning to methodically re-fold his newly washed clothes. “So does it?” he questioned after a moment. “Have to do with the names?”  
   
Castiel paused for a second, then resumed his folding. “I suppose you could say that,” he said finally. He placed a final pair of folded khakis gently into his duffel, and then turned around. “Ready to try again?”  
   
Sam groaned.  
   
By the time Dean returned, toting a plastic bag with take-out curry and rice, which he unceremoniously dumped onto the dresser, Sam was red faced and sweating buckets.  
   
The wick of the candle was smoking.  
   
“Wow, Sam,” Dean said. “Did you do that?”  
   
Sam honestly couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “It’s not as easy as it looks,” he ground out.  
   
“I’ll bet.” But before Sam could attempt his new skills using his brother as the focal point instead of the candle, Dean turned around with a disarming smile and a flourish. “I brought grub,” he said, proudly.  
   
Sam hung his head. “I’m so hungry,” he moaned, dragging himself over to Dean.  
   
Dean looked down at him and clucked his tongue. “Pitiful.”  
   
“Shut up,” Sam said. He extended a plate. “Food.”  
   
Over in his observant corner, even Castiel looked to have perked up as the smell of curry wafted towards him. Still, he didn’t move until Dean, noticing that the third member of their little group was missing, raised his voice.  
   
“Yes, Cas. I got enough for you too. Fuck’s sake, stop lurking and come eat.”  
   
“I wasn’t lurking,” Castiel said, although he did deign to wander over to the Winchester brothers and accept a plastic plate. “I was studying.”  
   
“Uh huh,” Dean said. He pointed at the still-smoking candle with a spoon. “Is that what you guys have been practicing?”  
   
Sam hurriedly slurped before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m supposed to be learning how to call fire,” he said when his mouth was no longer full. “The candle is supposed to be easier to practice on.”  
   
“Huh,” Dean said. He seemed thoughtful. “Burning things, huh?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “I guess.”  
   
Dean turned to Castiel. “That’s actually kind of useful,” he said, voice almost approving.  
   
Castiel met his gaze. “It seemed like it might be,” he said quietly. “And I do not believe that the Men of Letters posses the skill.” He bit his lip. “That is, without much prior preparation,” he amended. “And props.”  
   
Dean jerked his head towards the candle. “So, can we have a demonstration? One that actually works?” He batted his eyes at Sam, who crossed his arms and turned away in a huff.  
   
“At least I got it to smoke,” he could be heard grumbling.  
   
Castiel’s gaze darted to the candle, then back to his dinner. “It would probably be best if I did not,” he said. He continued to eat, his focus now wholly on the curry.  
   
“Aw, come on, Cas.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Why not?” Dean cocked his head. “Wouldn’t it be helpful to Sam, to see how it’s done at least?”  
   
Sam turned back around. “It might…” he said, hopeful.  
   
Castiel shook his head. “No.”  
   
Dean wagged his fingers under Castiel’s nose. “Come on,” he wheedled again. He paused. “Unless you can’t actually do it.”  
   
“Dean—” Sam tried to interject.  
   
“Well?” said Dean.  
   
Castiel very deliberately put down his spoon. “Thank you for the meal,” he said as he got to his feet. “I’m going to take a walk.”  
   
The door slammed behind him.  
   
Sam punched Dean in the shoulder. “Way to go, Dean.”  
   
“What?” Dean rubbed at the spot. “Come on, if he can’t put his money where his mouth is then he shouldn’t be teaching you either.”  
   
Sam gave him a pointed look. “I really don’t think we should be questioning his abilities,” he said mildly.  
   
Dean’s expression grew more serious. “We need to know what he’s capable of,” he said. “I just want to make sure.” He pushed his empty plate away. “We don’t know anything about him, except for little pieces. I’m just trying to play it safe.”  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Well maybe there are better ways to do that than pissing him off all the time?”  
   
“Well, sorry for trying to cover your ass in case it turns out he’s crazy,” Dean huffed.  
   
Sam gave him another one of his wordless, judgmental glares, but Dean had received enough of them throughout his lifetime that he was now pretty practiced at ignoring them.  
   
“I’m just trying to see that both of us come out of this okay,” Dean said. He softened his tone just the slightest. “That’s more important than whether or not Cas thinks I’m an asshole.”  
   
Sam was pensive for a moment. “Do you really think he’s going to try and screw us over?”  
   
Dean sighed, settling back down again. “I don’t know, Sammy. He seems fine, but we don’t know much about him.” He began to tick off his fingers. “We know he’s powerfully, probably bleeds coffee,” (Sam shuddered in agreement), “and works for Michael. That’s about it. And we don’t even really know who Michael is.”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam said. He tucked his hair behind his ears, fingers drumming the table. “Bobby’s working on that.”  
   
Dean nodded. “I know you think he’s a good guy,” he said. “But he’s not his own man. We still have to be careful.”  
   
Sam exhaled. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “I know.”  
   
As they were finishing their meal, more or less in silence, Dean brought up the real reason they were still in Moscow.  
   
“The shelter’s stopped accepting cats for the time being,” he said. “So at least there’s that.” He looked frustrated. “I don’t get it—it’s just the cats. Nothing else is weird, or out of place. No one’s dead—”  
   
“Except for cats,” Sam said.  
   
Dean made a face at him. “Yeah I know that. No one _human_ is dead.” He frowned. “Actually, from what the guy at the shelter said, a couple of them showed up dead, then the rest disappeared.”  
   
“Huh.” Sam put his chin in his hands. “And no people.”  
   
“Nope.” Dean let out a frustrated breath. “Makes it hard to interview anyone—not like Lassie’s talking.”  
   
“Most people would think that a lack of bodies is a good thing,” Sam commented. As he spoke, he began to gather the neglected plates and stuffed them in the tiny trashcan along with the take-out boxes and plastic spoons.  
   
Dean scrubbed his face with his hands. “Well if no one’s dead then we don’t have a trail to follow. Or a motive.” He spread arms upward, as if to encompass the universe above his head. “Nothing!”  
   
“Maybe someone just really doesn’t like cats.”  
   
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, that’s definitely it.”  
   
“Well,” said Sam. “There’s not really anything else we can do until someone turns up dead.” He paused, blinking. “That sounded…really terrible.”  
   
“You’re a horrible human being,” Dean said absently, toying with the remote, eyes glued on the television.  
   
Sam threw a spoon at him. “Shut up.”  
   
With nowhere to go in their hunt, they spent the evening with Dean hogging the remote, watching the Dr. Sexy marathon. After Sam’s complaints became too vocal to ignore and, more importantly, the five minute commercial breaks ground down to Dean’s last nerve, they switched to Shark Week, which Sam grudgingly accepted. Eventually, Dean dozed off on top of the covers, still in his clothes, the light of the TV a soothing flicker.  
   
Sam didn’t remember falling asleep either, but he woke up at about two in the morning with a start that very quickly pooled into dread. Something was wrong.  
   
He rolled off the bed gracelessly, finding his feet just before hitting the ground. Heaving himself up to his full height, he padded over to Dean.  
   
“Dean,” he hissed, urgent. “Dean, wake up.” He shoved at his shoulder. Dean batted his hand away. “Dean, come on.”  
   
“Go to bed, Sammy, jeeze…” Dean stuck his head under the pillow, smacking his lips.  
   
Sam tore the pillow away. “Dean!”  
   
Dean sat up like a shot. “What?” he snapped.  
   
Sam tossed the pillow back onto the bed. “Dude, something’s wrong.”  
   
Dean stared at him. “Are you gonna elaborate on that?” he said eventually.  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. He pointed at the empty rollaway cot in the corner, the blankets still meticulously made up. “Castiel’s still not back yet.”  
   
Dean sighed. “His stuff’s still here, Sammy. I don’t think he left you high and dry.” He grinned, settling back down into the covers. “Probably went for a drink and got lucky. It happens.”  
   
“No, Dean. That’s not like him. Something must have happened.”  
   
“Sam, you’ve known the guy for less than a month. This might be exactly like him. If he’s still gone by breakfast, we’ll start looking, okay?”  
   
But Sam wasn’t buying it. He strode over to the door, and reached down to secure the laces on his boots. “I’m going to go look for him.”  
   
“You’re kidding.”  
   
“No, Dean, I’m not.” Sam pulled on his jacket, then his hat and gloves.  
   
“There’s a fucking witch running around somewhere, you can’t just go out alone in the middle of the night.”  
   
“Oh,” Sam said sharply. “Now you’re thinking about the witch. What if Cas ran into her?”  
   
“Sam, I’m sure Cas can handle a witch.”  
   
Sam placed his hands on his hips. “And I can’t?” he retorted.  
   
Dean struggled to sit back up again. It wasn’t fair to have to argue on his back. “I didn’t say that.”  
   
“I’m going to look for him.” Sam placed his hand on the door handle.  
   
There was a beat of expectant silence. Dean shut his eyes in resignation. “Wait,” he ground out, shoving back the covers. “I’m coming too.”  
   
Even for a college town, it seemed like there were a lot of bars in Moscow. Under Sam’s direction, they started out close to the motel, reasoning that as Castiel had been on foot, he couldn’t have gotten too far. But as they circled further and further away, and most of the establishments seemed to have already closed or be closing for the night, there was no sign of him. Eventually, even Dean began to seem worried. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as they waited at a stoplight.  
   
“Maybe we should go back to the motel,” he said, shifting the car into gear and easing onto the gas pedal. “Maybe he came back when we were out looking.”  
   
Sam was looking out the window at the lightless shops and restaurants. “Do you think so?”  
   
Dean exhaled, but did not speak, his silence answer enough.  
   
When they returned to the motel, the room was dark and, when Sam clicked on the light, it was also empty.  
   
“Damn it.” Dean sat on the bed closest to the door. He scrubbed his hands through his hair in aggravation. “Where the hell did he go?” he burst out.  
   
“Witch probably found him,” Sam said glumly. He sat down next to Dean, their shoulders barely brushing.  
   
“See, this is exactly why I didn’t want him to come hunting with us in the first place. I knew this would happen. Something _always_ happens.” Dean struck the mattress with his fist.  
   
Sam struggled to his feet while also trying to take off his sweater. “Come on, you couldn’t know that Castiel would go for a walk and get kidnapped,” he said, voice muffled.  
   
“Something always happens,” Dean repeated. He watched with amusement as Sam struggled with the sweater, then felt bad for being amused. Castiel was probably being tortured right now. Jesus. He glanced towards the radio clock; the numbers read 3:36 AM. “We should get some sleep. We can keep looking tomorrow. We’re not going to be able to track him down tonight.”  
   
Sam, his hair mussed and face red, looked like he wanted to protest. But after a frustrated sigh, he nodded.  
   
The following morning, it was clear that neither of them had slept well. “Do you think if we brought coffee we could draw Castiel out?” Sam yawned, as they stumbled out of the café. He scrubbed at bloodshot eyes. “Like uh, like bait?”  
   
Dean was already scanning the street. “No,” he said shortly. “Come on.” He yanked at Sam’s arm.  
   
“Hey,” Sam complained. He tugged his arm away, cradling it protectively to his chest. “Do you even know where to start looking?”  
   
“Back to the animal shelter,” Dean said. “I think it’s our best choice.”

                                                                                                         ~     *     ~

   
As it turned out, Castiel did not go to a bar that night. Rather, he slipped into a coffee shop, just in time to catch the beginnings of a poetry slam. About ten minutes into the occasion, he began to regret his decision.  
   
On the chair to his left, a bright-eyed young man clung to every word spoken by the woman on stage. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he choked out, turning to Castiel.  
   
Castiel blinked. “No,” he said flatly. “It’s terrible.” (One day, Castiel would learn that honesty was not necessary the best approach, but it was clearly not this day).  
   
The man in question flushed. “Hey dude, what’s your problem? That’s my wife.”  
   
Castiel gave a quick jerk of the head, slurping down the last bit of his coffee. “My apologies,” he said, getting to his feet. “Perhaps you should invest in a poetry class for her.” He left the man staring at him, mouth agape. He headed back to the coffee counter. Maybe he could convince the barista to put in some baileys in his next cup.  
   
The woman behind him in line, who had been sitting just a little ways away, tittered. “So callous.”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “I was just being honest.” He turned around. “I do feel a little bad though,” he admitted. “But it was just…” he froze as their eyes met.  
   
She was a witch. Castiel knew it as surely as he knew his own name. It clung to her like a peculiar perfume, wrapped around every move she made; Castiel hadn’t met too many witches in his time, but they always had that scent.  
   
“You,” he said dumbly. Because there. Right behind him. In line to get some kind of latte. Was a witch.  
   
Dean was going to be so pissed.  
   
Going by the wideness of her green eyes, the woman behind him was equally surprised. “Holy shit,” she said. And before Castiel could start interrogating her about _what did you do with the cats_ , and _who is your demon master_ and _what are your future nefarious plans_ , she said, with what sounded like honest relief. “Finally! Do you have any idea how long ago I sent that request to Michael? I was getting really worried.” She then eyed Castiel more closely—and prudently stepped back a little. “Although,” she said, now sounding a little nervous, “when I asked for help, I didn’t think Michael would send one of his own.”  
   
Castiel stared at her. “I’m sorry, what?”  
   
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘what’? There’s no way you’re not one of them. I can smell it on you.” She placed her hands on her hips. “So?”  
   
“Uh,” said Castiel. “I’m really not sure—“  
   
“Sir, how can I help you?”  
   
Castiel started, and whirled back to face the counter. “Yes, I’m sorry. A black coffee please.” He eyed the witch. “To go,” he added.  
   
They collected their drinks. They went outside. Castiel blew the steam off his coffee, and wrapped his hands tightly around the mug to warm his fingers.  
   
“So,” said the witch. “Michael didn’t send you, huh?” She scowled. “That asshole. I should have just put an anonymous tip out to the Hunters.” She kicked at a pile of snow. “At least they would have bothered to show up.”  
   
Castiel chose not to comment on her assessment of Michael’s character. “So you didn’t kill the cats,” he guessed.  
   
She crossed her arms. “Really? You’re just going to march into my town and not even introduce yourself before you accuse me of killing cats?”  
   
There was a pause while Castiel attempted to process that. After a moment, he extended his hand. “Castiel,” he offered.  
   
“Annie,” the witch huffed. She did not take the proffered hand, and eventually, Castiel retracted it. “Not a cat killer,” she added, flicking back her hair.  
   
Castiel frowned. “But you know what did?”  
   
Annie gave him a look that seemed to indicate that she did not think very well of his intelligence. “Obviously,” she said. “I’ve known about it for a while. That’s why I sent for help like, a couple of months ago?”  
   
“So why didn’t you do anything?”  
   
“You kidding?” she laughed. “Pest control on this scale is so not my problem. That’s your job.”  
   
Castiel decided that he did not like Annie very much. “You will need to be a little more specific. Why did you ask for Michael’s aid?”  
   
Annie turned away. “There’s a rugaru in town,” she said, voice quiet. “He doesn’t have much time left.”  
   
Castiel exhaled, a sudden tightness in his throat. “I see.” He too, looked away. Of all the supernatural creatures, he thought, the rugaru, doomed from birth, was the saddest. “Does he know?”  
   
“I don’t think so.” Annie took a long gulp of her coffee, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “It’s been slow.”  
   
“The cats?”  
   
She looked, suddenly, much angrier. “Cats and I have a special bond,” she said. “They called to me, but I was too late for his appetites.” She met Castiel’s gaze. “I took the rest later. So he could not have them.”  
   
Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Not the dogs?” he said dryly.  
   
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like dogs.”  
   
“So you left them.”  
   
She moved her head side to side, cracking her neck. “Fine,” she snapped. “There’s an Old One just outside of town. An alpha. He’s been keeping an eye on them. Happy?”  
   
Castiel could feel a headache coming on. “For a small town, there seem to be many of you here,” he said mildly. He wondered how much he could get away with not telling the Winchesters. Hunters, he knew, tended to kill first and ask questions later.  
   
Annie sniffed. “We keep our noses out of human business, and they don’t bother us.”  
   
“And yet you still called Michael.”  
   
“A rugaru is different.” Annie tossed her coffee cup into the trashcan beside the door. “He’s dangerous to everyone.”  
   
“If he does not eat human flesh,” Castiel said, “he will not turn.” It was less a statement than a warning. “He will still be human.”  
   
But Annie shook her head. “He’ll turn,” she said. “They always do.”  
   
And Castiel knew that she was right. He could see now why Michael had not sent anyone—the man was still technically human. As soon as he killed someone, became a true monster, then Michael would act. He could keep his hands clean that way, Castiel supposed. Michael did not fancy himself a murderer.  
   
And the unlucky first victim—and possibly more—would be dead.  
   
Castiel felt very tired. “Very well,” he said. “Who is it?”  
   
“You planning to do it tonight?”  
   
“Is he going to turn so soon?”  
   
She hesitated. “You might have a few days.”  
   
Castiel finished off his coffee. He dropped the cup into the trash. “I came here with two hunters,” he said. “I should update them about the situation.”  
   
Annie looked very unimpressed. _“You_ need two hunters to help you dispatch a rugaru?”  
   
“Our business together is unrelated,” Castiel said stiffly. “But it would be impolite not to tell them what is going on.”  
   
“Okay, but the problem with that is, usually when Hunters see me, they tend to go for their guns first.”  
   
(Castiel was still considering it).  
   
“If you’re planning to meet up with them before getting the rugaru,” Annie continued, “I don’t want to be anywhere nearby.” She shivered. “No way am I getting near that thing. Or the Hunters.”  
   
Castiel let out a frustrated breath. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Tell me what you know, and then we will part ways. What’s the rugaru’s name?”  
   
Annie pursed her lips. “A guy named Evan Hunter,” she said finally. “He works at the animal shelter."  
   
“Of course he does,” Castiel muttered. “Where does he live?”  
   
She waved him away. “You think I memorized his address?”  
   
“I would have hoped.”  
   
“Well if Michael had actually sent someone, I’d have the folder all ready to hand over to you.” She placed her hands on her hips, jerking her head towards the street. “It’s at my house. I can get it for you.”  
   
“I will go with you.”  
   
“No way, dude,” she said, already halfway down the steps.  
   
“Why not?”  
   
She rolled her eyes. “Uh, no offense but I don’t want you in my house.”  
   
Castiel was almost a little bit hurt. Almost. “Why?”  
   
“Does a drug dealer invite a cop to his house when he snitches on the other guy? No, no he doesn’t. You stay here.”  
   
“I’m not a cop,” Castiel assured her.  
   
She stared at him. “No shit,” she said. “And I’m not a drug dealer. But the point stands.” She got into a blue Civic. “I’ll be back in twenty.”  
   
“Wait,” Castiel said, trying not to sound desperate. “Please.” He indicated the coffeehouse, the people inside it. “We should not do this here. Please, I give you my word I will not harm you. I will not tell the Hunters where you live.”  
   
She hesitated.  
   
“Please,” said Castiel, one more time.  
   
“Ugh, fine,” she said finally. She pushed open the passenger door. “Get in.”  
   
Castiel hurried down the steps and eased himself into the seat.  
   
“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” she grumbled, putting the car in gear. And despite his earlier words, Castiel felt inclined to agree.  
   
But for now, he had a job to do.


	5. Chapter 5

Annie drove them to a two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of town.  
   
“This is yours?” Castiel asked as they got out of the car. About two seconds after closing the door, he tripped over a tree root, only barely managing to right himself. Annie politely pretended not to notice.  
   
“It’s a family place,” she said shortly. She untangled a set of keys as she walked towards the front door. Castiel followed, making sure to watch the ground as he walked. “The stuff’s in the kitchen,” she added, as they crossed the threshold and she opened the wooden door. “I’m going to make some tea.”  
   
Castiel glanced around. The furniture in the front room was plain but sturdy, obviously well-kept. There were a few paintings on the walls, but no photographs.  
   
Annie disappeared down a hallway to the right. “Want some?” she called.  
   
“I would appreciate that,” Castiel said. He walked into what he assumed was the kitchen. “Where is the folder?”  
   
She indicated the table, then did a double-take. “I must have left it in the office,” she said. “Hold on. Have a seat or something.” She waved him towards a chair with one hand, filling up and plugging in an electric kettle with the other.  
   
Castiel gave an awkward nod as she moved through another doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat stiffly at the round wooden table, barely avoiding knocking his hip into the head of a nail loosely stuck into the wall, a dirty potholder hanging off of it in all its threadbare glory.  
   
Inside the electric kettle, the water began to boil. He was just about to stand and rummage through the cupboards for some kind of teabag, when Annie came back into the room.  
   
“I’ll get it,” Annie said. She handed a brown folder to him. It had cat stickers all over it. Castiel prodded the fuzzy ones. He remembered that one of his cousins used to have all kinds of stickers like that. One summer, Gabriel had stolen them and pasted them all over Raphael’s door. And then Hael had been so heartbroken that Castiel had spent all of his allowance to buy her some new ones. For her 11th birthday, Gabriel had gotten her a kitten to make up for it, but only after Castiel refused to speak to him for a month. Castiel looked around at the mostly empty kitchen.  
   
“What did you do with the cats?”  
   
“Oh,” Annie said carelessly, reaching for a box. “They’re outside in the backyard.”  
   
“All of them?” Castiel said, incredulously.  
   
She looked confused. “Obviously.” She poured hot water into a pair of mugs, and handed one to Castiel. “It’s hot.”  
   
“Thank you.” Castiel sat back down at the table and took a drink. It tasted good. Familiar. There was mint in there, and something else that he couldn’t quite catch the name of. Castiel pulled the folder towards himself and flipped it open. He took another sip of tea as he did so. What _was_ that other flavor?  
   
The first page in the folder was a photocopy of a driver’s license. Evan Hunter was just about to turn thirty—right on time for a rugaru’s instincts to kick in. Castiel flicked to the next page.  
   
It was a picture of a cat. Why would there be a…  
   
Castiel jerked his gaze away from the folder to stare at the tea in horror. He knew what that flavor was now.  
   
“I’m a little disappointed,” Annie remarked from where she leaned against the counter. “I thought this would be harder.”  
   
Blurry shapes were crowding at the edges of Castiel’s vision. He tried to stand, and managed to stagger to his feet, shoving the chair out of the way. “What do you want?” His tongue felt large and foreign in his mouth.  
   
Annie wrinkled her nose. “Definitely not you.”  
   
“The Winchesters?” Castiel managed.  
   
“Bingo.”  
   
“It’s not…” Castiel struggled to make his mouth behave. “It won’t work,” he slurred.  
   
“God, I’m embarrassed just watching you,” Annie remarked as Castiel crumbled to the floor.  
   
And for a while he knew nothing.  
   
By the time he came to, the sun was shining, so he knew some hours had to have passed. Of course, the sun was shining through the cracks in the door leading up to the exit of what was probably a cellar, so Castiel could be forgiven for being more focused on other things. Like the fact that his wrists and ankles were bound to a post on the floor, in addition to being handcuffed, and also that he had a splitting headache.  
   
Lesson learned: do not accept tea from strange witches.  
   
He tested his bonds. He knew he could try to use Enochian to secure his release, but lately his abilities had become even more unpredictable. Even when he wasn’t using the words, he could practically feel them inside, twisting their way through his throat and chest until he squashed them back down into his stomach. He needed to save his strength.  
   
He also needed not to collapse the house on top of himself accidentally.  
   
The door creaked open. “Don’t look so morose, Castiel,” Annie said. She leaned against the doorframe, the knees of her ragged jeans covered in dirt. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not that kind of witch.”  
   
“My circumstances would point to the opposite conclusion.” Castiel pulled at the ropes a little. He could feel the bindings there were more than physical. There was some sort of spell at work. “If you’re trying to lure the Winchesters to you, there are probably better ways to do it than this.”  
   
She laughed. “If it weren’t for the job, I wouldn’t be in the same town as them. Are you kidding? They’d kill me. I’m not stupid.”  
   
Castiel looked up at her, the light from the sun shining through the window behind her making him squint. “I don’t understand.”  
   
She pushed herself off the doorframe and stood up straight. “It’s really not that big a deal,” she said. “The Winchesters will take care of the rugaru—yes, he’s real. Don’t look so surprised—and then my employer will take care of the Winchesters. And you’ll stay here.”  
   
“Why don’t you just kill me?” Castiel asked wearily. “It would be easier.”  
   
Annie rolled her eyes and shook out her hair. “Politics, dummy. Even if you’re an embarrassment to the family, Michael would still be a little upset if someone killed you. My employer doesn’t want to have to deal with his tantrum.”  
   
“Does everyone know about that?” Castiel demanded. “How do _you_ know about that?”  
   
She winked at him. “Was it worth it?”  
   
Castiel shot her a glare.  
   
“Fine.” Annie stuck her tongue out at him. “I could always ask _him_ you know. I’ve got contacts too.”  
   
“You can’t,” Castiel said, and the dullness of his tone surprised even him. “He’s dead.”  
   
“Oh.” She looked taken aback. “Sorry.”  
   
“You’re not.”  
   
“Jeeze, just because I’m a witch doesn’t mean I’m heartless. Don’t be so classist. It’s not like you’re entirely human.”  
   
The look he gave her was brittle; his voice, even more so. “You don’t know anything about me.”  
   
She held up her hands. “Fine, fine. I won’t say anything. I’ll leave you alone. Brood in the basement for all I care.”  
   
Castiel ignored her. “If you’re not going to kill me, when will I be released?”  
   
She shrugged, adjusting her sleeves. “Dunno. Couple of hours I would guess. My employer says he’ll give me a call.”  
   
Castiel’s lips thinned. “A demon?”  
   
She frowned at him. “I’ve told you like a million times I’m not that kind of witch, okay? We’re not all demon worshiping floozies. I’ve got natural talents, same as you.”  
   
“Natural talents,” Castiel repeated. “An interesting way to put it.”  
   
Annie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be an asshole. You’re the one tied up in a basement.” She crossed her arms, “So?”  
   
Castiel blinked at her, his expression wooden.  “So what?”  
   
“What are you going to do about it?”  
   
Castiel resettled himself on the floor. “I thought I would just sit here quietly,” he said.  
   
“Good boy,” Annie murmured. She moved to close the door. “Want anything from the kitchen?”  
   
“No, thank you.”  
   
She shut the door, and Castiel was left again in the dark.  
 

  
                                                                                               ~   *    ~

  
   
The trail at the animal shelter was cold, just like it had been the day before. Sam and Dean returned to the motel empty-handed and irritated. Dean came to an abrupt stop at the door.  
   
“What the hell?” he said. A white envelope had been taped to the front. He plucked it off and peered at it, while Sam came to stand next to him.  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
“Don’t know. It was just on the door.” Dean slid his finger into the slight gap between the flap and the rest of the envelope, and tore it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a photograph and a note in unfamiliar handwriting.  
   
**Evan Hunter. 3305 N Willow Street. Rugaru.**  
   
“Sammy,” said Dean, handing the picture to Sam. “I think someone’s fucking with us.”  
   
Sam examined the note, then the picture. “Do you think whoever wrote this has Castiel?”  
   
“Why would someone kidnap Cas and then send us on a hunt?” Dean pushed open the door and made his way inside. He sat down on the bed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”  
   
“Got me, Dean, I don’t know.” Sam put the photo and the note side by side on the tiny table, pushing old plastic plates out of the way. “Should we check it out?”  
   
“Probably a trap,” Dean grunted, pulling off his boots. He dropped them in a pile at the foot of the bed. “A really fucking weird one,” he added, massaging his feet.  
   
Sam wrinkled his nose. “Dude, your feet stink.”  
   
“Bite me.” Dean pulled off a sock and tossed it at Sam, who batted it aside with a look on his face like he had swallowed a lemon.  
   
“That’s disgusting.”  
   
Dean blew a raspberry at him. Sam rolled his eyes.  
   
“If there’s any chance there’s a rugaru there, we have to at least check it out.”  
   
Dean exhaled. “Fuck, I hate rugarus.”  
   
“Tonight?”  
   
Dean eyed the photograph of Evan Hunter. “Poor bastard,” he said. “Look him up. See if he’s real, for starters.  How old he is, his parents, anything. Maybe we can come back in a few years.”  
   
“I don’t think it works like that, Dean.”  
   
Dean flopped down on the bed, closing his eyes. “Humor me, Sammy.”  
   
“What about Castiel?”  
   
“Man, this maybe rugaru is the only lead we’ve got. Maybe it’ll lead us to Cas, too.”  
   
From the look on Sam’s face, he doubted it. Instead of saying anything however, he got out his laptop and began to research Evan Hunter.  
   
“Evan Hunter, almost thirty,” Sam turned around to face Dean. “And according to his birth certificate, adopted.”  
   
“Fuck.” Dean rubbed at his eyes. “Criminal record?”  
   
Sam perused the screen. “Looks here like he was clean up until about a month ago.” He blinked. “And in the past three weeks has gotten a DUI, an official warning for drunk and disorderly conduct, and was later arrested for assault. A buddy bailed him out two days ago. Court date pending.”  
   
“Too bad,” Dean grunted. “Would’ve been easier on everyone if he went crazy in a jail cell.”  
   
“Not for the guy stuck in the cell with him.”  
   
Dean ignored that. He headed over to the sink and filled one of the little paper cups with water, which he gulped down. “The dead cat thing would make sense if he’s been changing.”  
   
“Still doesn’t tell us who took Castiel,” Sam said. He shook his head. “I just don’t get it!” he burst out. “Why take Castiel and send us on a hunt?”  
   
“Someone’s fucking toying with us is what.”  
   
“What like, this is their little test? See if the Winchesters can handle a rugaru?” Sam blew air out the side of his mouth. “I don’t think so. This is straight up weird.”  
   
Dean gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “You think?” he said tartly.  
   
Sam pursed his lips. “Think it’s a trap?”  
   
Dean dropped the cup on the counter and paced his way back to the table. “Hell if it isn’t the stupidest trap I’ve ever seen. But someone’s trying to trip our asses up.”  
   
Sam stilled. “No,” he said slowly. “Someone wants our asses out of the way.”  
   
Dean picked up the note, squinting at it for anything they might have missed the first time around. “You think they’re after Cas?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, but dude, whoever gave us this knows we’re hunters. They had to know Castiel was with us.”  
   
“But Cas is already MIA, Sammy. If someone wants him, they’ve probably already got him.”  
   
Sam gave a helpless shrug. “Well if it’s us they’re after, what the hell’s stopping them from just coming in here?”  
   
Dean bit his lip, then he exhaled, plopping down on one of the beds. “I’ve got nothing,” he admitted.  
   
“Yeah,” Sam said. He pushed away from the computer to face Dean. “Me neither.”  
   
“Think maybe Cas just took off?” Dean suggested, after a few moments of quiet.  
   
Sam waved his hand at the duffel in the corner. “Wouldn’t he take his stuff?”  
   
“Yeah, probably.”  
   
They lapsed back into silence. Dean picked absently at a scratch mark on the side of the bed, scuffing his foot on the carpet the whole while. He ran his fingers along the cut, wondering if someone had carved their initials there for kicks, like he and Sammy had done when they were little…  
   
Sam was just about to suggest they at least take a look at the rugaru, when Dean sat up straight.  
   
“Son of a bitch,” he said.  
   
“What?” Sam blinked at him.  
   
“That sneaky son of a bitch,” Dean repeated. He tumbled off the bed and dropped to his knees, peering at something on the side of the bed.  
   
“Uh, Dean?” Sam said. He stood up. “You okay over there?”  
   
“Goddamn,” Dean said, sounding halfway between pissed and impressed. He turned to Sam as his brother kneeled down beside him, then pointed at something on the side of the bed. “Look at that.”  
   
Sam looked. “Oh,” he said. He frowned at the symbol scratched into the metal. “Isn’t that—?”  
   
“Warding,” Dean said, sitting back on his heels. “He must’ve covered the whole damn place. No wonder those sons of bitches couldn’t get in here.”  
   
“Demons?” Sam wondered.  
   
Dean shrugged. “Something. You’re the one taking lessons from him. You recognize it?”  
   
“Just that it’s Enochian,” Sam said. “So then…”  
   
Dean stood, beginning to pace. “They took Cas when he was out. If he was all they wanted, there wouldn’t be any point in telling us about the hunt.”  
   
“You don’t think—it couldn’t be the rugaru, could it?”  
   
“No.” Dean shook his head. “Poor dude probably has no idea what’s going on. It’s not him.”  
   
“But if they know we’re hunters, they know we _can’t_ just book it out of town with a guy about to go full on Mr. Hyde,” Sam realized. “And if they can’t get us in here–”  
   
“Then they’ll come after us somewhere they know we’ll be,” Dean finished. They looked at each other.  
   
“That sounds crazy,” Sam said after a moment.  
   
“Got anything better?” Dean peered out the window, then turned back to Sam. “Something’s hunting us, Sammy. I don’t know who, or why, but something’s after us.”  
   
Sam rubbed at his forehead. “Do you want to leave?”  
   
Dean snorted. “No way,” he said. “If some fucker is hunting us, I’m going to fucking hunt him back.”  
   
“And Castiel?”  
   
Dean gave him a significant look, jerking his head towards the warding sigils carved into the bed. “Dude’s got some serious mojo, man.”  
   
Sam frowned, then his eyes widened. “You think whoever took Castiel wanted him out of the way,” he said, catching on.  
   
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Someone wants to get to us, but they knew that Cas could throw a real monkey wrench into whatever they’re going to do.” Dean looked thoughtful. “They’re betting we’re going to go after the rugaru.”  
   
“We were, until like five minutes ago,” Sam felt compelled to point out. Dean made a face at him.  
   
“Well yeah, but that was before,” he said. He smacked the table. “Rugaru can wait a day. It’s not like he’s going to go apeshit when the clock strikes midnight. We’re going after Cas.”  
   
Sam closed his eyes. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing all day?” he said wearily. “We’re right back where we started.”  
   
“I don’t know, man. But we’ve got to find him.” He leaned back in the chair, placing his hands over his eyes. “Maybe we could rent a bloodhound,” he mused.  
   
“Oh yeah,” Sam said dryly. “That’d definitely work.”  
   
“Should’ve put a tracking bracelet on him.”  
   
“What, you got a supply of those?”  
   
“Shut up.” Dean lobbed a tissue at him.  
   
“It’s like you were raised in a barn,” Sam muttered, dodging the tissue.  
   
“I heard that, Grandma.”  
   
Sam scowled and turned back to his laptop. There had to be some police cameras around town. Maybe one of them had caught sight of Castiel. Behind him, Dean groaned.  
   
“I hate this weather. My mouth’s all chapped.” He licked his lips to demonstrate. “See?”  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah Dean, I see…” he trailed off. “Dean.”  
   
“Sam.”  
   
Sam ignored that. He turned around and leaned forward on his elbows. “Dean, we could do a location spell.”  
   
Dean huffed. “Uh, maybe you weren’t here when we tried that this morning, but Cas doesn’t even own a hairbrush and we’re short on supplies so we’re kind of missing a key ingredient or three.”  
   
“No, dude,” Sam said in frustration. “Not on Cas. On the other guy.”  
   
Dean sighed, but sat up. “And you’re going to do that how, exactly?”  
   
Sam raised an eyebrow, and held up the envelope from the note. “Spit,” he said.  
   
Dean eyed it. His gaze flickered back to Sam. “Uh, no,” he said flatly.  
   
Sam frowned. “It might work.”  
   
“It might not,” Dean countered.  
   
Sam waved the envelope under his nose. “We might as well try. It’s not like we have any other leads, unless you want to get screwed by some rugaru that might not even exist.”  
   
“Oh yeah, and where’re you planning to find the rest of the ingredients?” Dean said, voice a little sharper now. “It’s not like we’ve got an apothecary down the street. You think the Kroger’s sells griffin feathers? Maybe right next to the Wonderbread?”  
   
“I’ve got griffin feather.”  
   
Dean gave him a huffy look. “You do not.”  
   
“Yeah, it’s in the bag.”  
   
Lips pursed, maintaining eye contact with his brother, Dean walked over to the duffel and opened up on of the side pockets. He pawed around for a bit, then pulled out a plastic bag. He held it up. “Really? This?”  
   
Sam crossed his arms. “What?”  
   
“Dude, these are powdered. No fucking way that’s going to work.” Dean threw the bag at him. It smacked Sam in the chest. “Powdered. Jesus Christ, what the hell did you go and powder griffin feathers for?”  
   
Sam moistened his lips. “Well, it’s all we have, Dean, all right? Unless you just want to sit on your ass while Castiel is probably being tortured, some assholes are trying to hunt us down, and some dude is getting ready to go eat his neighbor. We have to at least try it.”  
   
Dean stared at him like he wanted to find something, anything to argue the point. After a moment though, he let out a breath. “Fine,” he said shortly. His jaw worked. “Do you have a map?”  
   
Sam had more sense than to let his triumph show, and instead nodded, trying to look as earnest as possible. “We’ve got the ones in the car. Could probably pick up a city one though. Make things easier.”  
   
“Yeah, all right.” Dean picked up the keys. “Need anything else while I’m out? Phoenix dust? Fairy blood?”  
   
Sam scowled at him. “Just go get the damn map.”  
   
“Yeah, okay.”  
   
The door slammed shut behind him.  
   
By the time Dean returned with a map of the city of Moscow, Sam was beginning to feel doubts about his plan. He was good at spellwork. More than good. But trying to do a location spell on someone using only spit was bad enough. The powdered griffin feathers might screw the spell up beyond anything even remotely useful. However, Sam consoled himself, it was the only option they had. He had to at least try.  
   
When he came back inside, shaking snow off his boots, Dean handed the map over to Sam without a fuss. Likewise, Sam placed in the middle of tiny table, where he had been busy drawing symbols with chalk. He considered the powdered griffin feathers for a moment, then shrugged and sprinkled them over the entire map. Dean raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as Sam struck a match and lit the candles set at each cardinal direction.  
   
The chant was familiar to both of them. Though Dean tended to defer most necessary spellwork to his more gifted (in his opinion) brother, Dean wasn’t entirely incapable. Besides, the location spell had a lot of variations, and growing up, Dean used to lose his keys on a weekly basis.  
   
He settled into a stiff armchair as the chant neared its climax, the familiarity of the Latin settling into his mind like a comfortable blanket. But as the spell began to wind down, Dean frowned. The flames should have been licking the map by now, trailing a path to the note-leaver. He leaned forward, a wry, “I guess it didn’t work,” forming on his lips.  
   
The entire thing exploded in a haze of black smoke.  
   
Dean was up like a shot, coughing. “Sammy?” he shouted hoarsely as the smoke alarm went off.  
   
“Fine!” Sam said. The dust began to settle, revealing Sam standing stock still in front of the scorched table, covered in blackish powder, and missing quite a bit of his eyebrows. “I’m fine,” he repeated, voice croaky, though he looked a little shell-shocked.  
   
Dean surveyed the damage. “Tell me you didn’t know that was going to happen,” he said finally.  
   
Mute, Sam shook his head.  
   
“Christ,” Dean muttered. He moved to open a window, though paused to reach up and prod at the smoke alarm stuck on the low ceiling. It ceased its whistling. Dean waved the smoke outside and made his way back to his brother, starting to brush him off. “Well I guess that didn’t work,” he said, as he swatted Sam’s hands out of the way and encouraged Sam to take his sweater off. “Ugh, Sam. Go wash your face. You look like a chimney sweep.”  
   
Sam nodded jerkily. He extended a closed fist towards Dean. “Dean.”  
   
Dean paused. “Yeah?”  
   
Sam opened his hand. There, on his palm, was a small piece of the map. Dean looked at him in disbelief, then took it, blowing on it to make the ink more legible.  
   
“Told you it would work,” Sam murmured.  
   
“Well goddamn,” Dean said. “I guess we’re off to see the wizard.”  
   
Sam shuddered. “I hope not,” he said. “I hate wizards.”  
   
   
                                                                                                                ~    *    ~

  
   
At the sound of heavy footsteps upstairs, Castiel lurched awake from his light doze. He trained his gaze on the basement door, and was rewarded when it creaked open not a minute later, light from the upstairs flooding in. His eyes narrowed as he took in the tall, definitely male form standing there.  
   
“You must be Castiel,” said the man. “I’ve heard about you.”  
   
Castiel tried not to let that information disturb him too much. He attempted to sound nonchalant in his reply, though it was difficult with the dryness of his throat. “And you are?”  
   
The man came downstairs, heavy boots clomping on the rickety wood. Castiel wished he had the control to crack it just enough so that he might fall through. He came right up to Castiel, who opted to pull out the unimpressed stare that had so irritated his brothers.  
   
The man smiled, as if charmed. “You’re just how I imagined you’d be,” he said. He ran a hand through graying yellow hair, then pulled out a 9 mm pistol. “I know what those handcuffs do to your abilities,” he said. “I’m going to untie you, but the handcuffs stay. You try anything, I’ll shoot you. Got it?”  
   
Castiel blinked at him. “Why are you doing this?”  
   
The man cut his bonds. “Stand up,” he said.  
   
Castiel slowly stood, the blood rushing to his head as he did so. The man waited patiently.  
   
“Can you walk?”  
   
“Give me a moment.” Castiel bent over until the dizziness passed. He straightened. “Where are you taking me?”  
   
The man jerked his towards the stairs. “Up,” he said. “There’s a man with a shotgun standing up there if you do something stupid. So don’t even think about it.”  
   
Castiel gave him a wry look, and began to climb. As his captor had said, there was indeed a second man standing just outside the basement door as Castiel emerged into the hallway next to the kitchen, blinking at the brightness. He spotted the witch leaning against the counter, looking pale and furious.  
   
“Hello Annie,” he said.  
   
She ignored him in favor of glaring at the man who appeared behind him only a few seconds later. “You said they wouldn’t come within miles of this house,” she hissed. “We had a deal.”  
   
The man shrugged. “Plans change,” he said. He pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Castiel.”  
   
“I would rather stand,” Castiel said, politely.  
   
The man gave him a cold look. “Sit,” he said. Castiel sat. And if he happened to sit in such a way that no one could see what was going on with his hands, or that he had sat next to the wall with that nail sticking out of it. Well, it was just a coincidence.  
   
“Get him out of here,” Annie said through gritted teeth.  
   
The man eyed her calmly. “He stays.”  
   
“Then I’m leaving,” she retorted. “I’m not waiting around for the Winchesters to show up and carve my heart out.”  
   
“No,” the man said pleasantly. His companion took a threatening step forward. Annie moved back. “You stay too.”  
   
She scowled. “You’re going to get us all killed.”  
   
“Hmm,” said the man. “Perhaps.” He eyed Castiel, who was squirming the slightest bit, trying to get his trapped hands to pull the nail out of the wall without anyone noticing. “Something wrong, Castiel?”  
   
Castiel stopped his movement. “I need to pee.”  
   
He could see the slightest relaxation in his captor’s shoulders. “Tough.”  
   
Castiel resumed his squirming. This time, they ignored him.  
   
Not two minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  
   
The two men looked at each other. “Do you think that’s them?” said the other man, speaking for the first time. He had a low, reedy voice, at odds with his squat build.  
   
Annie looked wild eyed at them. “The Winchesters wouldn’t knock,” she said, still managing to sound scornful despite her obvious panic.  
   
Castiel had his own opinions about that, but kept them to himself. He almost had the nail out of the wall now. If that was Sam and Dean, he wouldn’t be able to help them, bound as he was. And if it wasn’t, well. Still better that he get loose than remain a prisoner.  
   
There was another knock at the door. Reflexively, they all turned in the direction of the front entrance.  
   
Which was exactly when the kitchen window was smashed in. A very familiar voice shouted, “Cas, drop!” and in a split second that impressed even himself, Castiel managed to jerk the nail out of the wall safe in his palm as he rolled off the chair and tucked himself under the table, while Dean began firing into the room. The first person he hit was Annie, who dropped with a shriek, clutching her leg.  
   
Back at the front entrance, there was the unmistakable sound of a door crashing open, but before Sam could launch himself into the kitchen, Castiel’s captor held up a hand. Dean watched in disbelief as the bullets he had fired immediately slowed and stopped, dropping to the ground like something out of the X-men.  
   
And then the men began to chant. Even preoccupied with freeing himself as he was, Castiel’s blood ran cold—he recognized the guttural language, but the weight of it suffocated his tongue. Everything felt colder, like icy fingers on the back of his neck. He couldn’t even cry out to warn Dean, to warn Sam.  
   
The chant grew louder, and Dean shouted in surprise as something picked him up, dragged him through the broken window, and slammed him up against the door. His brother was treated in a similar fashion, though Sam’s head smashed into the wall harder than the rest of him and his body went limp.  
   
Castiel shook, fury and fright warring within him. Fingers trembling, he worked his stolen nail into the keyhole of the handcuffs.  
   
“So, here we have the brothers Winchester,” said the man with the yellow hair. “You are a pain in the ass to track down, you know that?”  
   
“Maybe you’re just a shitty hunter,” Dean shot back. He bared his teeth in a bloody facsimile of a grin, ignoring the blood dripping down his arms and legs from cuts from the glass.  
   
The man frowned, motioned, and Dean began to claw at his throat. “Enough,” he said. “I need you alive, but my boss said nothing about damages.”  
   
“What do you want with us?” Dean managed to wheeze. “Are you a demon?”  
   
The man, if anything, looked affronted. “Of course not.”  
   
“You sure?” Dean breathed out heavily through his nose. “Cuz you’re pretty indistinguishable from those black-eyed sons of bitches from where I’m standing—” the man frowned, raising his hand once more, and Dean began to choke again.  
   
“I don’t appreciate being insulted,” he said. “After all this effort I’ve put in.”  
   
Under the table, Castiel finally felt the click of a lock successfully picked. He could have cried with relief. Instead, he crawled out from his shelter and stood on wobbly legs.  
   
“Enough,” he said.  
   
At his voice, the man turned. “Ah, look who has decided to join in the conversation.”  
   
“Enough,” Castiel repeated. “I know what you are. Now let them go.”  
   
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “And what am I, Castiel?” he queried.  
   
Castiel’s eyes hardened. “The lowest of the low,” he said flatly. “Now let them go.”  
   
The man’s gaze slid towards his companion, who had been watching the proceedings with a bored expression. “Do you really want to go there?” he said softly.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel ground out. “I won’t ask again. Let the Winchesters go.”  
   
“Hmm.” The man pursed his lips. He tilted his head as if thinking. “And if I don’t? What are you going to do about it, bound as you are?”  
   
In response, Castiel brought his hands forward. He held up the handcuffs that had held him, and dropped them on the floor. For the first time that night, a flicker of nervousness passed over the man’s face.  
   
“If you know who I am,” Castiel said. “Then you know exactly what I’m going to do.” The dampening effects of the handcuffs gone, he could feel fury burning at the edges of his vision, begging to be let loose. He managed to rein it in for the moment. “Let them go and I’ll let you live.”  
   
“You’re bluffing,” the man said. He stepped back despite himself. “You won’t do it. You can’t control it. Not without killing us all.”  
   
“Can’t I?” His hands felt warmer now, the burning nearly crowding out his vision. “Let. Them. Go.”  
   
“Shoot him,” the man ordered his companion.  
   
The gun blazed red-hot. The other man dropped it in surprise. Castiel didn’t even spare a glance in that direction. He stepped forward. “Let them go. Now.”  
   
In response, Castiel’s former captor began to speak frantically in that guttural language. A familiar chill began to gather around the room again, like the slimiest tendrils of winter. In response, Castiel’s limbs burned like there was fire running through his veins. Very deliberately, he looked at Sam, who was still out cold, then at Dean. “Dean,” he said.  
   
Dean gaped at him for a moment. “Yeah, Cas?” he managed. Was it his imagination, or was the other man beginning to glow? “Cas, what—?”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said, more urgently. “You must close your eyes.” He could feel himself trembling, the darkness of the other man’s chanting drawing something hot from inside him, an instinct he could not control.  
   
“But Cas—”  
   
“Now, Dean, close your eyes!” Castiel cried, and a bright, white light began to emanate from him. Despite himself, Dean screwed his eyes shut against the incomparable brightness as faintly, as if from a great distance away, the other chanting abruptly cut off, and someone began to scream.


	6. Chapter 6

“Cas. Cas.” Someone was shaking his shoulder. In response, Castiel groaned, slapping the hand away.  
   
“No,” he mumbled.  
   
“Cas, Castiel!” the noise became more insistent. Castiel cracked open one eye, and Dean’s face swam into view.  
   
“Dean?” he croaked.  
   
Dean slumped back in relief. “Jesus,” he said with feeling. “You’re awake.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “You really freaked us out, man.”  
   
“Wha—huh?” Castiel struggled to sit up, blinking around as he did so. Apparently, he was in a bed. In a hotel room. A different hotel room than they had stayed in before, he surmised, because he would definitely have remembered walls that particularly eye-searing shade of yellow. “What happened?”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then hesitated. “You don’t remember?” he asked instead.  
   
Castiel bit his lip, cradling his head in his hands. The memories were fuzzy, but the ache in his body felt all too familiar. “I used Enochian,” he said slowly, voice subdued. He dared to glance up. “Didn’t I?” The memories were starting to become clearer now. The nausea he felt worsened. He paled.  
   
Dean looked away. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you did.” He turned back to Castiel, and Cas could not bear the gentleness in his face, in this man who had bickered with him, made fun, treated him like—like he was _normal_ —  
   
“I’m sorry you had to see it,” Castiel said. He twisted his fingers into the bed covers to hide the shaking.  
   
From what Castiel could read of his resulting expression, Dean was torn. It was fair, thought Castiel.  Part of Dean probably wanted to remain reassuring, while the rest of him probably wanted to make a dash for the weaponry. Castiel could understand. He watched as Dean gnawed on his lower lip.  
   
“Cas,” he said again. “I—“  
   
“Don’t,” Castiel cut him off, voice tight. “These things happen. I don’t need your pity.” He gazed down at his hands, at the cloth twisting between his fingers.  “But I am glad you and your brother suffered no harm. It could have—I, my control is tenuous.”  
   
“Uh,” said Dean. He scratched his arms. “Well, at least they were the bad guys…” he trailed off at the sudden fury in Castiel’s gaze.  
   
“They were human beings!” he snapped. “And I—I—” he covered his face with his palms again. “I’m a monster,” he whispered, voice breaking.  
   
“Cas…” Dean tried again, but clearly had no idea what to say. If it had been any other situation, Castiel might have laughed. Dean Winchester: Speechless. He had done that.  
   
Instead, he tried not to look as Dean stood there, arms hanging awkwardly by his sides. Dean took a breath. “It wasn’t your fault,” he ventured. “If you hadn’t done it, they would have killed you. They would have killed all of us. Or worse.”  
   
Castiel shook his head. He wiped at his eyes. “Tell me, Dean,” he said, tremulously. “If you didn’t know me, but you saw what I did—what I can do. Wouldn’t you want to hunt me?”  
   
Dean swallowed. His gaze darted away. “No,” he said.  
   
Castiel gave him a look. “You’re lying,” he said tiredly. He swiped again at the water trailing down his cheeks. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’d hunt me too.”  
   
“Cas…”  
   
Castiel wet his lips. “The—the witch?” he questioned, voice subdued. “Did she survive?” _Did I kill her too?_  
   
Dean looked down, toying with the bandages on his arms and wrist. He had been flung through a window, Castiel remembered suddenly. He hoped the cuts hadn’t been too bad. He resisted the urge to reach out and check the bandages himself.  
   
“She’s alive,” Dean said eventually. At that news, Castiel slumped back into the pillows, some of the tension draining out of him. It didn’t make it all right, no. Things were far from _all right_. But it did make it better. The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down. “Of course, I was all for killing her, being a witch and all, but Sammy convinced me not to.” He hesitated. “What with her being the way she was now.”  
   
Castiel felt a renewed chill creep of his spine. “What do you mean?” he made himself ask.  
   
Finally, Dean looked at him, straight in the eye. Castiel shrunk back. “She’s blind, Cas,” he said. His voice was soft, as if in an attempt to lessen the blow. It did not work.    
   
Castiel stared at him, the nausea and roiling in his stomach worse now, like the terror of what he had done was egging it on, trying to boil his psyche over into a full blown panic. He forced it down. “What—how?”  
   
He startled a little as Dean laid what Castiel assumed was supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Eyes burnt completely out of her socket,” he said, still using that soft, gentle voice. Like Castiel was a horse he was trying not to spook. “Couldn’t even remember her own damned name.”   
   
“Oh.” Castiel’s voice was faint. And he heard himself speak, as if from very far away. “I did that.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “I guess you did.” He squeezed Castiel’s shoulder.  
   
Castiel looked down. Still beneath the covers, he could feel his hands tremble. He twisted his fingers together some more. “What are you going to do with me?”  
   
Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “You’re hunters. And I’m…” he trailed off. _I don’t know what I am_ , sounded ominous enough inside his head. He didn’t want those words to breach past his lips, to linger in the space between them. “Whatever it is, don’t let Michael know it was you,” he said instead.  
   
“Jesus, Cas, we’re not going to kill you,” Dean said sharply. He drew back. “So you went a little crazy. Happens to all of us.”  
   
“Well, you should!” Castiel retorted, before he could stop himself. Dean’s eyes widened. “I’m a monster, Dean. Something’s wrong with me and I can’t—I can’t—” he drew in a ragged breath. “Better you do it than someone I don’t know. Better you do it before I hurt someone else. Before I _kill_ someone else.”  
   
“Cas—”  
   
“You can’t let me go,” Castiel said quietly. “Not after what you saw.”  
   
“Well, we—”  
   
“You should do it soon, rather than later.”  
   
“Damn it, Cas!” Dean growled. He smacked his fist down onto the bedside table. “Would you shut up and listen to me? We don’t want to kill you. We want to try and help you.”  
   
Castiel huffed out a breath. “If there was something that could help me, don’t you think the Judah Initiative would have done it already? With all that we know, don’t you think Michael would have figured something out by now?”  
   
“Well, maybe they missed something,” Dean said. “Come on, all that stuff you’ve been teaching Sam? You used to be able to do that just fine, right?” He stared at Castiel, a glint of challenge in his eye.  
   
Castiel tried to stare back, but eventually lowered his gaze. “I—yes,” he said reluctantly.  
   
“Well,” Dean said, “what changed?”  
   
Castiel closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. He opened his eyes again. “I’m telling you, Dean, there is nothing you can do. You can’t fix this.”  
   
“Well not with you spouting off bullshit like that!” said Dean, exasperated. “Everyone’s got problems, Cas. Yours are just a little unusual. Now, you gonna keep up your pity party, or are you going to level with us so that we can de-arm your nuclear ass?”  
   
Castiel struggled to sit more upright. “I _am_ leveling with you,” he insisted. “I didn’t used to be like this, Dean. I used to be normal. But something happened and I don’t know how to fix it. My brothers can’t fix it. So why should _you_ be able to?” He was being harsh, he knew. But it had to be said. He had to make Dean see sense.  
   
But Dean shook his head. “No, Cas,” he said. “There’s got to be more to the story than that. You’ve got to tell us what’s going on.”  
   
“I—” Castiel bit the inside of his cheek. “Why would you even want to help me?”  
   
Dean sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair, and perched himself at the side of Castiel’s bed. “Man, you’re not a bad hunter. You’ve saved my butt three times, you’ve been doing right by Sammy, getting him all trained up. You don’t deserve this.”  
   
“A lot of people don’t deserve what happens to them in life,” Castiel said dryly. “You’ve neglected to mention that I trailed you under orders, that I answer to Michael.”  
   
Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you ‘forgetting’ to send in those reports. Or the fact that half the goddamn supernatural world seems to know your name. Can’t say I’m not curious.”  
   
Castiel looked away.  “I won’t go begging the Men of Letters of help,” he said.  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Fuck no,” he said. “Not those assholes.”  
   
“Then what?” Castiel demanded.  
   
Dean held up his hands, placating. “Now I know everyone thinks us hunters are a bunch of uncivilized, unwashed hooligans.” (Castiel continued to look less than impressed at that). “But,” Dean continued, “that doesn’t mean we don’t have a couple of aces up our sleeves.”

  
   
   
                                                                                                     ~   *   ~

  
   
   
They left the motel as soon as it was feasible. Castiel was still weak, but together enough to stand the trip, often dropping off to sleep as soon as the car started. They headed east down I-90. Dean was convinced that they could make the trip in one go, switching off drivers, catching a quick nap on the side of the road when absolutely necessary. Luckily, saner heads prevailed.  
   
“Dean, no,” Sam said, as they were coming up on the ninth hour of driving. He jerked his head towards the back seat where Castiel had curled up to make himself as comfortable as possible. Even in restless sleep, he looked a bit greenish around the gills. “Look at him. He’s totally messed up. We should stop for the night.”  
   
“He’s not going to feel better anyway,” Dean countered, mulishly. “He said it usually takes a week for it to settle.”  
   
Sam pursed his lips. “Well he’ll probably feel better being not in a moving vehicle for more than a few minutes.”  
   
“Man, he’s out cold. Not like he’s even going to notice.”  
   
“Dude, it’s not that big a deal. I’d rather stop, anyway.”  
   
Dean heaved a sigh. “Fine, _Princess_ ,” he grumbled. “We’ll stop.”  
   
After another hour, they found a cheap motel just past Billings, Montana, where they stopped for the night. Dean and Sam collectively dragged Castiel from the car, when he woke up long enough to notice that they were no longer moving. He was conscious long enough to acquiesce once again to sleeping on a rollaway bed, being the shortest of the three (though not by much). He seemed more interested in the fact that the bed was a flat, relatively soft surface, than in noticing how his feet hung off the edge, and that he was still wearing clothes from two days ago.  
   
Dean’s mouth twisted wryly. “Think we can get him to shower tomorrow morning?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “Be my guest.”  
   
Come morning, after Dean had coaxed Castiel to bathe and change clothes, they left as soon as possible, still heading east. As they drove through the endless snowy roads and grey clouds of the day, eventually night fell. The music had long tapered off into a low hum that only Dean seemed able to hear, which he punctuated every now and then with some taps to the steering wheel. Sam dozed lightly in the front seat, his face smashed up against the glass. Castiel remained in the back, waking up every so often, but seeming mostly content to stay quiet, just breathing.  
   
Around seven o’clock they exited off the freeway just west of the South Dakota, Iowa border, and rolled into town. The change in pace jarred Castiel awake and he struggled to sit, rubbing bleary eyes as he peered out through the window.  
   
“Welcome to Sioux Falls,” Dean said, his voice low so as to avoid waking his brother. He continued to drive slowly down a dirt road, turning in at what looked like a junkyard, of all places.  
   
Castiel took in the heaps of rusted trucks and old cars, machinery lying abandoned, strewn about like metallic confetti. “Your ‘ace’ lives here?” he asked, voice doubtful.  
   
Dean flashed him a grin. “Sure does,” he said. “Come on. If he likes you, Bobby might even let you have the guest bed.” He slowed to a stop and put the car in park. After a day of endless driving, the stillness was almost unsettling. Dean paused for a moment, casting a glance at the still-sleeping Sam. He looked in the rearview mirror and caught eyes with Castiel, who stared back at him. There was a beat of silence until, suddenly decisive, Dean thumped the steering wheel. “Come on,” he said. “Faster we get inside, faster you can sleep in a real bed.”  
   
The moment broken, Castiel pushed at the car door. “I feel like I’ve been sleeping forever,” he groused as he unfolded himself and stood outside on shaky legs.  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said. He reached for Castiel’s elbow just as the other stumbled. “Careful, dude. There’s car parts all over the place.”  
   
Castiel blinked at him, “Okay,” he said. After a moment just a second too long, Dean removed his hand, shoving it into his back pocket.  
   
“Yeah, so,” he said, nodding to the ramshackle house that stood a few feet away. “Bobby’s in there. Come on.”  
   
Castiel twisted his head back to look at the car. “What about your brother?”  
   
“Eh,” Dean waved his hand. “He can sleep. He’ll come inside once he wakes up.”  
   
Together, they made their way up creaky wooden steps. It was Dean who pounded on the door. “I actually have a key,” he said in an undertone. “But Bobby prefers it if you knock. Old man’s kind of paranoid if you ask me—”  
   
“I’m old, not deaf, idjit,” came a new voice as the door swung open. It was followed by a thorough dousing of what Castiel presumed to be holy water. It splashed both him and Dean, but missed Sam, who had just begun to clomp up the stairs behind them, grumbling.  
   
Dean spat out the water as Castiel, now suddenly a great deal more awake than he had been a few seconds ago, wiped at his eyes and wrung out the front of his shirt.  
   
“Sorry,” said Bobby, clearly not at all apologetic. “Can’t be too careful these days.” He fiddled with his baseball cap and peered at Castiel, who had been expecting many different things, but certainly not a man who looked like a trucker with a shady past. “You must be Castiel.” He stuck out a hand. Uncertain, Castiel took it, and was treated to a very firm handshake. He couldn’t help but notice the silver ring that Bobby wore as he did so.  
   
Dean crossed his arms. “Does he pass?”  
   
Bobby narrowed his eyes at Dean. “Don’t get smart with me, boy,” he said. “I’ve had more than one solicitor react to that holy water.” He looked over Castiel and Dean’s shoulders. “Hey Sam,” he said. “Been a while.” He frowned. “What happened to your eyebrows?”  
   
Castiel looked behind him as Sam shuffled his feet, looking for all the world like a guilty schoolboy. “Sorry, Bobby,” he offered. “Been busy.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” Bobby waved them inside. “You boys are always busy. What kind of mess is it you’ve gotten yourselves into now?”  
   
“Technically it’s Cas’s mess,” Dean pointed out as they entered the house. Castiel, who had been expecting some terrible hovel, was pleasantly surprised to find that while crowded and with mismatched furniture, the house wasn’t actually that bad. Additionally, the walls were covered floor to ceiling in books, which he greatly approved of. He was so distracted trying to check out titles, that he completely missed his chance to defend himself. Bobby however, was unwilling to let it settle at that.  
   
“Oh yeah?” he said. “Well when you called me earlier, seems to me you talked my ear off about some guys after your butts. Doesn’t ring any bells?” They had reached the kitchen now. Already exhausted, Castiel sat on one of the kitchen chairs while Bobby opened the refrigerator. Castiel shook his head mutely when the older man offered him a beer. Bobby gave him a slightly suspicious look, but didn’t say anything, handing the drinks off to Sam and Dean instead.  
   
Dean cracked his open with a nod of thanks, then peered at Castiel, who was starting to list a little to the side. “Cas? You okay over there?”  
   
Castiel startled and straightened. “Yes,” he said. “Sorry.”  
   
Bobby snorted. “Son, you spend enough time with these Winchester boys and you learn to spot a liar real quick.”  
   
“I’m fine,” Castiel asserted, now a paler shade of green.  
   
Bobby raised an eyebrow at Dean, who put his beer down on the counter and strode over to Castiel. “Come on,” he said, pulling him up. “I’ll show you where the guest bed is.”  
   
“I’m fine,” Castiel protested again, even as he allowed himself to be led away. “Really, Dean. I can walk,” he added, as they headed back into the living room, towards the stairs.  
   
“Yeah, straight into wall maybe,” Dean said, voice fainter now that he was further from the kitchen.  Bobby took a long pull of his beer.  
   
“Yeah, I can see how Dean really dislikes that Castiel kid,” he commented, voice wry. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “When’s the wedding?”  
   
Sam sighed. “I think he feels guilty,” he confessed. “I mean, you’re right, Bobby. Those guys were after us—for whatever reason. Castiel was just collateral.”  
   
But Bobby shook his head. “Anyone foolish enough to travel with you two probably has the sense to know what they’re getting into. Guy with mojo like you’ve been telling me? He should be able to take care of himself.”  
   
Sam still looked uneasy. “I guess,” he said. “But Dean still feels like it’s his fault. I know Castiel doesn’t blame us—hell, he probably thinks he’s partially responsible too. But you know Dean.” He looked down at the beer in his hand. “Everything’s always his fault.”  
   
“I know Dean,” Bobby agreed. He shifted, placing his beer bottle on the counter, and sat at the table. “So what’s this ‘problem’ of Castiel’s anyway? Dean described it over the phone, but he wasn’t too clear on the details.”  
   
In response, Sam took a deep gulp of his own beer. “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you?” he admitted. “I got knocked out. By the time I came to, Castiel was lying on the floor surrounded by guys who looked like they’d gotten their brains burnt out of their skull through their eyes.” He shuddered a little.  
   
Bobby narrowed his own eyes. “But Dean was fine?”  
   
“Not a scratch on him,” Sam confirmed. “He uh,” Sam looked away. “He said Castiel got all weird, right before. Told him not to look.”  
   
“He did, did he?” Bobby mused. He leaned back in the chair. “So he must’ve had some sense what was coming.”  
   
“Maybe.”  
   
“You said there was a witch, too?”  
   
“Yeah. She’s the one who lured him down there in the first place I guess.” He smiled a little at Bobby’s snort. “Castiel’s kind of—well, you saw him. He’s very uh, well-intentioned, I guess is the word? I mean, he agreed to help _us_ out, so. You kind of get the idea.”  
   
“So he’s an idiot,” Bobby surmised.  
   
“No,” Sam protested. “He just. Uh, I guess the witch came to him about a rugaru and he wanted to help her out. So…”  
   
“So he’s an idiot.”  
   
Sam’s expression twisted. “Bobby, according to you, _everyone’s_ an idiot.”  
   
Bobby opened another beer and raised it to Sam. “Don’t mean it’s not true.” He took a sip. “What happened to the witch?”  
   
“Dean shot her,” Sam said, “when we first got there. And then I guess, when Castiel did his thing he, uh, blinded her. Just like the other guys.”  
   
“But he didn’t kill her.”  
   
“No,” Sam said. He walked over to the sink and washed out his now empty beer bottle, placing it in the drainer to dry. He then pulled out another chair and another beer and sat across the table from Bobby. “Do you have any idea what it could be?”  
   
“Well it doesn’t sound like any monster I’ve ever heard of,” Bobby told him. He pursed his lips, scratching at the side of his face. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t figure it out,” he said quickly, at Sam’s crestfallen expression. “I’ve got a few ideas. We’ll need Castiel’s cooperation of course. But we might be able to crack this.”  
   
Sam traced idle patterns on the kitchen table with his fingertips. “You think? I mean, if the Judah Initiative couldn’t figure it out—”  
   
“That’s just what Castiel _said_.” Bobby crossed his arms. “But between us two, I have a hard time believing it.”  
   
Sam looked up, frowning. “What do you mean?”  
   
Bobby put his beer down, face serious. “Sam,” he said. “I’ve been reading up on these guys. They have a long—and I mean, _long_ , history. I even found a damn medieval illuminated manuscript that talked about them, though it used a different name.”  
   
Sam tilted his head. “A different name?”  
   
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Used interchangeably a lot, until the past couple centuries, when Judah Initiative got more popular.” He shrugged. “Just around the time the Jews were starting to get a little more accepted into mainstream society, coincidentally. But before then? It was all _B'nei ha Malachim_ this and _B'nei ha Malachim_ that.”  
   
Sam mouthed the words silently, trying to get a feel for the strange syllables. “What does it mean?”  
   
“It’s Hebrew,” said Bobby. “The malachim were a class of angels, mentioned in the Old Testament. _B'nei_ means ‘sons.’ So…” he shrugged. “Sons of Angels, I guess.” He swallowed the rest of his beer and thumped the empty bottle down on the counter, wiping the side of his mouth. “Kind of lofty, if you ask me. But there you go.”  
   
“Huh,” Sam said. They were quiet for a few moments. Sam ran his fingers around the rim of his beer, thinking. He blinked as something occurred to him, and leaned forward towards Bobby. “You know, that would explain the names. Michael. Castiel has a brother named Gabriel, too. And you said before that there was an angel named Castiel, right?”  
   
“It’s one of the names for Cassiel, the Angel of Thursday,” Bobby confirmed. His eyebrows drew together. “And also of solitude and tears.” He made a face. “Which would actually explain a great deal about Thursdays in general,” he muttered.  
   
“Man, that kind of sucks,” Sam said. He drew back and stretched, glancing up at the ceiling. “Why the hell would you go and name your kid after the Angle of Thursday?”  
   
“Hell if I know. Maybe he was born on a Thursday.” Bobby rotated his shoulders. “Could’ve been worse. Some of those names? At least your friend Castiel didn’t get stuck as ‘Qaphsiel’ or ‘Jegudiel.’”  
   
Sam winced. “Guess he dodged a bullet.”  
   
“Definitely. But anyway, no way guys with that much of a history wouldn’t be able to figure out at least part of what was wrong. I don’t think we’re getting the whole story here.”  
   
Sam exhaled. He rested his chin in his hands. “So you’re thinking Castiel lied to us,” he said quietly, frowning. “But Bobby, why would he do something like that? You didn’t see him before, but he was seriously freaked out.”  
   
Bobby leaned forward on his elbows. “Or,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Castiel’s not the one doing the lying. Maybe they’ve been lying to _him_.”  
   
Both of Sam’s eyebrows shot up as well. “No way,” he said. “You think they would do that to him?”  
   
“It’s just an idea.” Bobby relaxed back into his chair. He gripped the beer bottle by the neck and swung it between his knees lazily. “But you of all people know what those secret societies can be like. Maybe they don’t want him to know what’s going on. Maybe he’s more useful to them the way he is now.”  
   
“So…” Sam hesitated. “What do you think we should do?”  
   
Bobby got to his feet. “Well for starters,” he groaned, pressing a finger to his lower back, massaging it, “you can help me make some dinner. After that I guess we’ll have to wait for Castiel to get better before we start poking and prodding at him.” He tilted his head at Sam. “Well?”  
   
“He said he didn’t know anything.”  
   
Bobby shook his head. “Well, maybe we’ve just got to help him remember properly,” he said. He waved at the counter. “We’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, cut up some of these onions, would you?”  
 

  
   
                                                                                                                 ~  *  ~  
 

  
   
Despite his assertions that he was “Completely fine, Dean. Really.” Castiel slept for approximately thirty-six hours after his head hit the pillow in Bobby Singer’s guest bedroom. By the time he managed to pull himself together to go downstairs, it was nearly midday. So he was surprised to see that while the rest of the house was empty, Dean stood in the kitchen in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, flipping pancakes.  
   
For a moment, Castiel paused in the doorway and watched. Dean moved like he had a great deal of familiarity with this kitchen, opening up all the correct cupboard doors on the first try, and rummaging through the refrigerator as if it were his own. Castiel wondered how long the brothers had known Bobby, if this was the case.  
   
Eventually, he shuffled forward, the noise he made enough to get Dean to glance over his shoulder.  
   
“Oh, hey Cas,” he said. “You’re awake.”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel’s throat felt like sandpaper. He cleared it. “I’m feeling much better.”  
   
“Good.” Dean flipped a stack of pancakes onto a plate. “Want some breakfast?”  
   
“Um.” Castiel’s stomach growled. Apparently, his appetite was back. That was a good sign. He sat down at the table. “Yes, please?”  
   
Without taking his eye off the new batch of pancakes currently on the griddle, Dean reached up and grabbed a plate, handing it off to Castiel. “Forks and knives are in the drawer over there,” he said, indicating with his elbow. “Want anything to drink?”  
   
Castiel blinked stupidly. “Uh,” he managed after a second. “Is there any coffee?”  
   
Dean jerked his head towards the coffee machine. “It’s cold from this morning,” he said. “But if you really want, then yeah.”  
   
Castiel rose, showing some form of eagerness for the first time that morning. “I’ll microwave it.”  
   
“Ew, dude.” Dean made a face. “Really?”  
   
Castiel shrugged, placing a mug of cold coffee into the microwave. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”  
   
“Gross.” Dean turned back towards the griddle and flipped the remaining pancakes onto the plate. He turned the griddle off just as the microwave dinged. “Your reheated nightmare’s ready,” he said, as he sat down at the table. After retrieving his coffee, Castiel joined him. “Come on, eat your pancakes before they get cold,” Dean urged. He dug into his own pile with gusto. Castiel began to eat as well, though he showed a great deal more restraint. He still wasn’t entirely sure how his body would react to being fed after such a long period of avoiding anything that even resembled food.   
   
“Thank you for breakfast,” he said.  
   
“No problem.” Dean chewed loudly. “Bobby and Sam went to town,” he added, spearing another forkful of pancake. “Had to stock up on supplies. Bobby pretty much lives on beans when we’re not here.” He caught Castiel’s stare. “What?”  
   
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Castiel blurted out.  
   
The tips of Dean’s ears reddened. “It’s just breakfast, man,” he said. “No big deal.”  
   
“No,” Castiel said. “Before you didn’t— didn’t trust me.” He saw Dean wince a little. “I don’t blame you for it,” Castiel hurried to assure him. “It’s just—”  
   
“Yeah, well. Maybe I misjudged you,” Dean said, looking determinately down at his plate. “You uh, you took some shit for us and, well, you’re still here, so.” He looked up just in time to catch the glimmer of a smile on Castiel’s face. “Dude,” he said, pained. “What, you want to do our hair and nails together after this? I was wrong about you, okay? And uh— maybe Sam was a little right and I was a little jealous— but I’m not anymore, I swear. But uh…” he trailed off.  
   
“I was wrong about you, too,” Castiel admitted. Dean’s gaze snapped up.  
   
“Huh?”  
   
Castiel looked down. “I thought you were uh, sort of a macho, overcompensating frat boy,” he confessed. “Sorry.”  
   
“Well don’t sugarcoat it,” Dean said, not sure exactly how offended he should be. Overcompensating? Him?  
   
He watched as Castiel shook his head, then smiled again at Dean. “But I was wrong,” he said simply. “You were just watching out for your brother. You’re really very sweet.”  
   
This time, all of Dean turned bright red. “I am not,” he protested.  
   
“You did make me pancakes,” Castiel pointed out.  
   
“Yeah well, I was already making them,” Dean grumbled. He shoved the last bit of pancake into his mouth and snatched Castiel’s plate away before he could malign his character further. “If you want to shower and stuff, there should be some clean towels in your room,” he said, not facing Castiel under the pretense of rinsing the dishes.  
   
He heard Castiel stand up, push the chair back in. “Okay,” Castiel said. Dean listened as Castiel paced his way back towards the stairs. There was a pause. “Thanks for breakfast.”  
   
Dean gave a dismissive little wave, flicking soapsuds over his shoulder as he did so. “You’re welcome,” he said.  
   
Castiel left.  
   
The shower at Bobby’s, small and dingy though it was, definitely ranked on Castiel’s list under the top ten best showers of his life. Maybe even the top five, Castiel mused, as he breathed in the gloriously warm, fogged up air. When the shower began to run cold after about twenty minutes, Castiel regretfully shut it off. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he padded back towards the guest bedroom. He stared at himself in the cracked mirror, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the thinness of his cheeks. To be honest, he still looked ill.  
   
Castiel turned away from his reflection. He dressed in his only pair of jeans and a button down shirt; the rest of his clothes needed a good wash. Finally, he toweled his hair dry, combing it messily with his fingers into some attempt at order.  
   
By the time he made it back downstairs, Sam and Bobby still had not returned. Dean however, had migrated to the living room, where he lounged on the couch, scrolling intently at something at Sam’s laptop.  
   
Castiel lingered awkwardly in the doorway until Dean looked up. He gave an exasperated sigh. “Christ, Cas. I’m not going to bite. Come sit down before you fall down.” He shifted over and patted the seat next to him.  
   
Still a little hesitant, Castiel sat. He kept his knees together, hands in his lap. “What are you looking at?”  
   
In response, Dean moved so that Castiel could now see the screen as well. “I was looking at possible cases,” he said. He scratched the back of his neck. “But…”  
   
Castiel peered over at the computer screen. “Cat videos?”  
   
Dean moved his shoulders up and down. “They’re very compelling,” he muttered. He cast a glance over at Castiel, noticing his outfit for the first time. He raised his eyebrows. “Casual Friday?”  
   
Castiel blanched. Had he somehow managed to sleep for three days straight? “Is it Friday? I thought—”  
   
“No, dude,” Dean said. “I was just making a joke.”  
   
Castiel looked down at himself, realizing. He tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Oh.” He settled back into the couch, eyes half watching the video on the computer screen as they lapsed into a silence that, while not exactly comfortable, wasn’t precisely uncomfortable either. “I like the one with the boxes,” he heard himself say, when the video ended.  
   
“Yeah?” Dean typed something into the ask box. “Okay.” He shifted a little closer, changing the angle of the laptop screen so that Castiel could see it more easily. “What should I search for?”  
   
By the time Sam and Bobby returned from their excursion, bags full of groceries in hand, they were treated to the sight of Dean sitting on the couch clicking away at the computer, a drooling Castiel slumped next to him.  
   
Sam and Bobby opened their mouths nearly simultaneously. Dean glared.  
   
“Not a word,” he hissed.  
   
Sam grinned, but pantomimed zipping his lips shut. Bobby just rolled his eyes and pushed past him towards the kitchen.  
   
“You boys going to help carry groceries, or are you just going to sit on your asses all day watching porn?”  
   
At Bobby’s voice, Castiel startled awake. He immediately leaned away from Dean, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled.  
   
Dean closed the laptop, stood, and stretched. “‘S fine,” he said, though he avoided looking at Castiel as he said it, choosing instead to continue to glower a warning at Sam, who looked positively gleeful at this point. “Sammy over there always used to fall asleep on long car rides. I’m used to it.”  
   
Sam crossed his arms. “I did not.”  
   
Bobby appeared behind him. “I’m not paying you boys to sit around,” he said. “Help if you want to eat.” He pointed a finger at a still bleary looking Castiel, who was attempting to stand. “Except for you. You stay put.” Castiel sunk back into the couch cushions, though his expression was a bit mulish.  
   
By the time dinner was served however, he had perked up considerably, even taking a second helping of chili.  
   
“You always this hungry after you do your uh, thing?” Bobby asked.  
   
Castiel thought for a moment, then nodded. “After the nausea passes,” he said. “Usually a few days afterward.” He hesitated. “Do you really think you can help me?”  
   
Bobby gave a noncommittal grunt. “I can try,” he said. “Better than doing nothing.” He fixed Castiel with a stern look. “But I’ll need the back-story,” he added. “The _real_ one.”  
   
Castiel stared down at his plate. “I’ve made vows,” he said quietly. “Some things I can’t speak of.”  
   
“Well, you’re going to want to think long and hard how much those vows mean,” Bobby advised. “Especially after the way your ‘family,’” he made sure to put extra emphasis on the word, “treated you.”  
   
Castiel stilled. “You know about that.” It was not a question. He could feel Sam and Dean stealing glances at him through the corner of his eye, though the two were pretending to continue to eat, oblivious. “How?”  
   
“I have some contacts.” Bobby stood, walking over to the stove top to refill his bowl. “Wasn’t too hard to piece together.”  
   
“I…see.” Castiel swallowed. Then he too, stood, pushing back his chair, and gathering his dishes. “I’ll think about it.” He moved to put his dishes in the sink, letting the hot water run over his hands, practically too hot to stand. But it felt good. His fingers were cold. “I’m feeling tired,” he said, placing the dishes in the rack to drain. “I think I’ll go rest for a little while.”  
   
Bobby nodded. “We can start research in the morning.”  
   
“See you tomorrow, Castiel,” Sam ventured.  
   
Castiel smiled warmly, if a bit wanly. “I will see you tomorrow, Sam.” He rotated and looked at Dean. “Dean.”  
   
Dean nodded.  
   
After Castiel had left the room however, Dean dropped his fork with a clank. “Hey, Bobby,” he said sharply. He leaned forward. “What the hell were you talking about to Cas just now?”  
   
For his part, Bobby looked fairly unimpressed. “What, he didn’t tell you?”  
   
“Tell us what?” Sam interjected, before Dean could open his mouth. “What are you talking about?”  
   
Bobby glanced towards the door, as if to make sure that Castiel had truly gone upstairs. He lowered his voice. “Didn’t you wonder what the hell a guy like Castiel was doing with regular old hunts? All by himself?” Sam and Dean exchanged glances.  
   
“I guess we never really thought about it,” Sam admitted. Dean murmured in agreement.  
   
“Well,” said Bobby. “I didn’t get much on the details, everyone I talked to had a different version of the story, and of course the JI wasn’t talking, but Castiel didn’t leave home voluntarily, boys. Michael threw him out.”  
   
Dean’s eyes widened in surprise. “He got kicked out? Why?”  
   
“Dunno.” Bobby shook his head. “Lots of rumors, but how much you want to bet it’s really something to do with this?” He nodded in the direction Castiel had gone.  
   
“But,” Sam said slowly. “He’s been in contact with Michael. He wouldn’t agree to teach me without his permission.”  
   
Bobby looked meaningfully at them. “I said he got kicked out, not flat out disowned. He’s probably still useful to them. And even if they did treat him like shit, that doesn't mean it’s easy to erase a lifetime of brainwashing.” He directed his next words at Dean. “Or to ignore family when they come asking.”  
   
Dean looked down at his plate. “Damn,” he said again. His bit his lip. “You said there were rumors. What rumors?”  
   
For the first time, Bobby looked a little bit uncomfortable. “I’d prefer to get the truth from the horse’s mouth directly. Some of the rumors were, well, kind of unsavory.”  
   
“Unsavory,” Dean repeated. He pushed his chair back. “Bobby—”  
   
Bobby held up his hands. “Look,” he said. “Why don’t you just ask the guy? He probably already knows what’s floating around about him in the supernatural gossip chain. He’d probably love the chance to tell his side of the story.”  
   
Dean’s lips thinned. “I don’t know, Bobby. Cas isn’t exactly talkative. And he’s sick, too.” Sam nodded in agreement. “Does it really matter?”  
   
“You going to take the chance that it might not?” Bobby began to gather his dishes. “We can’t help Castiel if we don’t even know what’s going on.”  
   
Dean exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Shit,” he said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll try and talk to him. Or maybe he’ll talk to you.”  
   
“Nah,” Bobby said. “He doesn’t know me from Adam. He trusts you two.”  
   
Dean snorted.  
   
“He does,” Bobby insisted. “He wouldn’t have come with you if he didn’t. He would’ve hauled ass days ago.”  
   
At that, Dean looked thoughtful.  
   
“Anyway,” Bobby said. “Just try talking to the guy, Dean.” A wry expression crossed his face. “I know feelings ain’t exactly your strong point,” (at that, Sam snickered. Dean shot him a glare.) “but this is kind of important.”  
   
Dean nodded, his shoulders straightening the slightest bit. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get him to spill.” He flashed his patented Dean Winchester Charming Grin, and nudged at Sam. “Just like any case, right Sammy?”  
   
“You smile at Castiel like that he’d probably try to exorcise you,” Sam observed.  
   
Dean punched him in the arm. Sam yelped and jabbed him in the side with his elbow.  
   
“All right,” Bobby said hastily. “That’s the plan then. Sam and I’ll work on research. You work on getting Castiel to crack.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said. He took a deep breath. “Can do.”  
   
   
 


	7. Chapter 7

A few days into the stay at Bobby’s house, things settled into kind of a routine. Bobby and the Winchesters spent the days pouring through Bobby’s vast collection on the off chance that they might spot something referencing “blinds its victims on accident” and “has problems with basic Enochian.” Castiel continued his recovery, and by the end of the third day he was spending nearly as much time as the rest of them hitting the books.  
   
He was quiet though, even for Castiel. Like something weighed heavily on his mind. Of course, the three of them already had a vague idea of what that could be, but a week into their stay and so far Dean had made very little effort when it came to interrogation. It was so out of character for him in fact, that after Sam’s pointed looks had morphed into outright irritation, Bobby cornered Dean outside in the junkyard one day to demand an explanation.  
   
The only problem was, Dean didn’t really have one.  
   
“You wanna run that one by me again?” Bobby said flatly.  
   
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “I just—don’t think we should push him. Dude’s been through a lot.”  
   
By the look on Bobby’s face, he was thoroughly unimpressed. “You don’t want to _push him_ ,” Bobby repeated. He eyed Dean, tapping the side of a rusted VW bus. _Tap, tap, tap._ “You.”  
   
“Jesus Bobby, I’m just trying to be nice. Dude still sleeps like, twelve hours a day. I’m just waiting until he’s better.”  
   
Bobby continued to glare.  
   
Dean smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, whatever happened to that rugaru in Idaho, huh?” he said, giving a weak laugh.  
   
Bobby’s lip curled. “Quit stallin’. I sent your cousins after him. When are you going to talk to Castiel?”  
   
Dean looked away. “I’ll get around to it Bobby. I swear.”  
   
Bobby’s jaw worked. “Get around to it?” he said, voice deceptively soft. “Dean, you’ve had a week to _get around to it_. What the hell are you waiting for? Castiel’s had years to sit on this. It’s not gonna get any easier if you give him an extra thirty-six hours!”  
   
“Lay off, Bobby. I’ll do it, all right?” Dean scuffed his feet. He pretended to examine a nick on the side of the VW, then glanced back at Bobby. “What’s the big hurry, anyway?”  
   
Bobby stared at him. “Did it never occur to you,” he said slowly, “that whoever tried to kidnap you boys the last time, might try another round? And that Castiel might know something about it? And that maybe you should figure it out _before_ they show up for Sunday dinner?”  
   
From the started look and the slow flush that crept its way up his neck and onto Dean’s face, it hadn’t.  
   
Bobby rubbed at his temples. “Boy,” he said, pained. “I honestly don’t know how you’re still alive.” He smacked the side of the VW one more time, as if substituting it for Dean’s head, and then reached up to squeeze Dean’s shoulder extra tight. “I don’t know why you’re so afraid of talking to the guy all of a sudden, but time to nut up. Research ain’t going so well. You have to ask him.”  
   
Dean swallowed, nodded. “Okay,” he said woodenly. He staggered a little as Bobby gave him a shove.  
   
“Castiel’s out back, going through his kit,” he said. He looked over his shoulder as he left, drawling, “And try not to be an idiot about it.”  
   
“Right,” Dean muttered, exhaling as Bobby wandered back out of sight. He leaned against the rusted out VW and looked up at the sky. The sun was just beginning to set, its brightness muted already from the northern winter. It was still cold enough that the snow on the ground hadn’t melted, though the sky was clear. Dean rubbed at his arms. He didn’t understand why he was so reluctant to speak to Castiel. Only that it felt—wrong, somehow. Invasive.  
   
He also didn’t understand why that should even bother him. Usually, it didn’t.  
   
“So, are you going to ask me for my life story or not?”  
   
Dean yelped and jumped at least a foot in the air. He spun around as Castiel eased out from the other side of the van, looking at him expectantly.  
   
“Don't do that!” Dean snapped, willing his heart rate to return to normal. “God, make some noise, would you?”  
   
“My apologies,” Castiel said, not looking apologetic at all. “Are you?”  
   
“Am I what?”  
   
“Going to ask?”  
   
Dean bit his lip. He picked at the scratch on the VW some more. “What are you doing here? Bobby said you were out back.”  
   
“I was,” Castiel agreed. He moved until he stood next to Dean, close enough for Dean to feel the heat of him, leaning back against the VW as well. They stood in silence for a few moments, Dean pretending to examine the vehicle, Castiel staring up at the sky.  
   
“Do you want me to?”  
   
“Not really.” Castiel turned to face him, eyes solemn. “But I understand. Someone has to. I’ve been expecting it.”  
   
Dean snorted. “You _understand_ a lot.” At Castiel’s shrug, he suddenly felt little pinpricks of anger. “Doesn’t it bother you?”  
   
Castiel blinked back at him. “Would it matter if it did?”  
   
Dean gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re kidding.”  
   
Castiel frowned.  
   
“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean said, pushing off the side of the VW so that he was right in front of Castiel. His voice rose as he spoke. “Of course you’re fucking allowed to be bothered when someone wants to know your fucking sordid past or whatever the fuck.” Castiel winced a little at that. Dean barreled on. “God, you are just so…grow a fucking spine, would you?”  
   
At Dean’s words, Castiel’s expression grew cold. “And what would you have me do, Dean?” he bit out. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. I’m out of options.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Castiel cut him off.  
   
“Who knows how long I’ll be able to go until I accidentally blind someone else? Kill someone else? A year? A month?” Castiel shoved away from the vehicle as well, and away from Dean. He stared down at the frosty ground as he said, “Your friend tells me he thinks my family has been lying to me—and I have nothing to gainsay that.” He whirled back around. “Nothing!” he snapped. “Do you have any idea how that feels? My best chance somehow lies with the three of you.” Castiel shook his head, “And if I have to reveal the worst of myself to even _keep_ that chance…” he trailed off, the fire seeming to go out of him, his entire form sagging. He looked lost. “I don’t care anymore,” he said. He fixed Dean with a glare. “So ask, Dean,” he said. “Ask.”  
   
For a moment, they stared at each other. Castiel stood wary but resolute, his gaze clear, his chin high. Dean shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He approached Castiel, steps tentative as if approaching an animal that might spook, stopping a few paces short of actually reaching him.  
   
“Come on,” he said, “it can’t be that bad.”  
   
“Maybe not to you,” Castiel returned quietly. He glanced up at the sky again, then back at Dean, voice measured. “It doesn’t mean that I hate myself any less.”  
   
“Look, Cas,” Dean said. “You know I don’t want to ask. But I have to, all right? Whatever happened involves me and Sammy now. We have to know.”  
   
“I know.” Castiel arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not trying to make this more difficult for you, Dean. And I am sorry.”  
   
Dean ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I get that, Cas,” he said tiredly. “And believe me, if it didn’t matter then I wouldn’t even go there. Way I see it, whatever happened is your business. It’s not like Sammy and I are squeaky clean by any means.”  
   
“This is different, Dean.”  
   
“For god’s sake, Cas. Whatever the fuck happened it can’t possibly be that different than the shit we’ve had to deal with.” Dean moved forward, taking a deep breath to quell his frustration. He grasped Castiel lightly by the shoulder. “Are you going to tell me or not?”  
   
Castiel’s gaze flickered to him, then back down to the ground. He did not answer.  
   
After a moment, Dean’s lips thinned. “Right, of course not,” he muttered. He dropped his hand and stepped back a pace. “Stupid question.” But rather than retreat the rest of the way, he continued to stand there, hands dangling awkwardly at his sides, unsure whether to stay or to go.  
   
Castiel meanwhile had tilted his head back against the side of the van to look up at the stars, as if all the heavens held the answers to all his problems.  
   
“Well I’ll just, uh, go back inside then,” Dean said eventually, when it became clear that no matter how much Castiel _understood_ that he had to ask, that didn’t mean he actually wanted to give an answer. “Let me know when you…you know.”  
   
Castiel did not respond. It was only as Dean began to trudge back towards the house in fact, that he spoke.  
   
“I was twenty-three years old,” he said. “And a visitor came to Michael’s house.”  
   
Dean froze. He turned slowly back around. “What kind of visitor?”  
   
The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched. “A very attractive one.”  
   
Dean blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, it definitely hadn’t been that. “Uh.”  
   
Castiel exhaled. He pushed away from the side of the van, but crossed his arms in front of himself protectively. “I suppose, in order to understand more about why this particular visitor had come to Michael, you need to know about the Judah Initiative.” He hesitated, and Dean could see that he was weighing his next few words. “Or rather,” he said after a few seconds, “Our particular branch of it.”  
   
Dean began to walk back towards him. As he reached the VW, he bypassed Castiel to pull at the side door. With a rusty creak, the door slid open. He climbed inside, waving Castiel inside as well. Castiel paused to glance back and forth between Dean and the van, as if gauging its structural integrity, but after a few seconds he clambered in with a look of trepidation. When they were both seated, Dean turned to him, green eyes expectant.  
   
“All right,” he said. “Go on.”  
   
The blanket covering the seat was well worn and threadbare, its character reminiscent of cacti deserts and red-pink sunsets. Castiel traced the orange and black geometric patterns with an idle finger. “The Men of Letters probably know something of this. Or at least, the higher ups. It’s not a _secret_ , all right, Dean? It’s just—I’m not supposed to speak of it. I expect if you and your brothers were full initiates, you’d already know some of what I’m going to tell you.”  
   
Dean shrugged. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”  
   
Castiel blew air out the side of his mouth. “You have no idea how much that particular utterance does nothing for me,” he said dryly. He placed his hands in his lap, admitting after a moment, “But I appreciate the sentiment.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said. And then, in an effort to be encouraging, “So there was a visitor…”  
   
“A very attractive one,” Castiel reminded him.  
   
“Yeah, uh. Okay, and—?”  
   
“We ah, I had an affair. With him.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth. He closed it. “You had a— with _him_. And that’s why Michael…?”  
   
“Well,” Castiel looked down at the blanket again, apparently finding its geometry very engrossing. “He was also a werewolf. Michael didn’t really approve.”  
   
“A werewolf,” Dean said flatly.  
   
Castiel sighed. “Yes.”  
   
Dean reminded himself that he had also done a lot of stupid things when he was younger, and that Castiel would probably not appreciate his judgment. So he reigned himself in. Barely. “You slept— had an affair— whatever. With wolf, uh, _guy_. Who was a guest? Why was he a guest?”  
   
“His family was very powerful,” Castiel said, managing to sound halfway between an NPR broadcast and a teen romance novel, “But they were engaged in a feud with another powerful family. Shapeshifters.”  
   
“Of course,” Dean said, beginning to regret even starting this conversation. His voice sounded a little higher than normal.  “Shapeshifters. Naturally.” Why had Bobby decided that _he_ was the one who had to talk to Castiel? Couldn’t Sam have done it? He wasn’t built for this shit.  
   
“He had come to Michael to request a neutral mediator.” Castiel’s mouth twisted wryly. “Our, ah, subsequent involvement may have made the issue a little more complicated.”  
   
Dean could feel a headache coming on. He rubbed at his temples. “I think you’re going to have to start at the beginning,” he said. He shifted a bit, trying to get more comfortable on the old seat, or at least find a spot without springs digging into his ass. “For starters, why would a, uh, _werewolf from a powerful family”_ (even the words sounded inherently wrong coming out of his mouth. Dean shuddered a little. Hadn’t there been a TV show about this? A bad one?), “Come to the top guy of the Judah Initiative to mediate?”  
   
For a moment, Castiel did not respond. His eyes downcast, he steepled his fingers together. “You’ve done research on the JI.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “Well, Sam did some. He gave me the highlights.”  
   
“Bobby also did research.” It was not a question.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean admitted. “Can I know where you’re going with this?”  
   
Castiel finally looked up. “The JI is old,” he said. His voice was quiet. “We used to go by another name. _B’nei ha malachim_. Sons of the malachim.”  
   
“I know.” Dean nodded. “Bobby told me. Why’d you change names?”  
   
“We didn’t,” Castiel said. He tilted his head a little. “We just expanded our definition, I suppose.”  
  
“You suppose,” Dean echoed. He rubbed at his forehead, leaning forward toward Castiel. “Cas, you’re going to have to be a little clearer here. Just tell me straight out.”  
   
Castiel’s shoulders slumped a little. “There are two branches of the JI,” he said. He sat up a little straighter as he spoke, gesticulating with his hands. “The second branch began to coalesce during the middle ages. Times were hard, so we—the b’nei ha malachim, rather, took some of our uninitiated cousins into the fold, so to speak. We—the two branches. We shared a common culture, a history. A language. Some family. The JI boasts many learned rabbis and scholars. They created the golem, for example, and keep many of our traditions alive, and our people safe. Most recently during the second world war.” Castiel’s lips thinned. He looked away from Dean, out the window. “Sometimes I do not think that my brothers pay them the respect they are due.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said slowly, mindful that he was probably about to trample all over some very sensitive issues. “So what’s the difference between regular old JI and the special snowflakes?”  
   
“To be in the JI,” Castiel said, “You must simply be one of the tribe.” He shrugged. “There is an initiation process of course. It’s not like we’re holding recruiting drives, but it is not difficult to join, if you truly wish to commit yourself to it.”  
   
“Uh huh.” Dean cupped his chin in his hands. “And to be one of the b’nei ha…whatever?”  
   
“Then you must be one of the b’nei ha malachim.”  
   
Dean gave him a look. “That really doesn’t clear things up, Cas.”  
   
Castiel rolled his eyes. “No, Dean. I mean literally. To be one of the b’nei ha malachim you must be a ben ha malachim.” He gave him a very significant look.  
   
Finally, what exactly Castiel was saying caught up with Dean’s brain. He stared. “So you mean, like, literally,” he said dumbly.  
   
“Literally,” Castiel said gravely.  
   
Dean opened his mouth. He closed it. Castiel blinked at him expectantly. Dean opened his mouth again. “So you’re telling me that your mamma was a literal angel? Angel angel? With wings?”  
   
Castiel flushed. “No,” he said.  
   
“So your grandma was an angel? Cas, is this the part where I remind you that I’ve never met anyone, ever, who’s ever seen an angel?”  
   
“Angels exist,” Castiel interrupted sharply. “And I’m not telling you that my mother was an angel. What I’m telling you, if you’d care to pay more attention, is that one of my ancestors was. We are the descendants of the nephilim.”  
   
Dean closed his eyes briefly. “The who?” he asked, resigned.  
   
Castiel pursed his lips. “I thought you said you did research on this.”  
   
“Well I guess I missed a step,” Dean retorted. “Please,” he extended his arm in a seated bastardization of a florid bow, “educate me.”  
   
Castiel apparently decided to ignore his flippancy. “When the grigori—that is more angels, Dean. The Watchers—they came to Earth and they walked among us. Some of them did more than walk. They begat children—stop laughing, Dean. I’m paraphrasing the Book of Enoch, here—neither mortal nor angel—that is what it says, do you want me to go find you a copy?”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Dean said, managing to get a hold of himself. “Go on.”  
   
Castiel glowered. “Like humans, some of the nephilim were good, others became tyrants. In the end, God ordered them all destroyed. The angels responsible for their existence were banished.”  
   
The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down. “But since you’re telling me that your great, great, great, great etc Grandma was one, I’m guessing that’s not what happened?”  
   
Castiel licked his lips. “The tyrants were destroyed first. When heaven came for the rest, they found that some of the nephilim had already begun families of their own.” He licked dry lips. “Heaven could have destroyed them all, I suppose,” he said quietly. “Every last man, woman and child. But for whatever reason, the angel Gabriel was merciful. Instead, he made a deal with those who remained. Another covenant.”  
   
“Which was?”  
   
Castiel exhaled. “To never seek power,” he said, “except in the service of others. To devote ourselves and our children to the betterment of humanity.” He looked a little apologetic. “There’s actually a thirty page outtake of Leviticus that goes over the finer details, but that’s the gist of it.”  
   
“Hmm,” Dean said. “Not bad, I guess. Could have been worse.” He was aware that the lightness of his tone probably made him sound like an asshole, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Angels? Really?  
   
Castiel however, seemed to take his doubt in stride. “Yes,” he agreed. “It could have been worse. All the b’nei ha malachim are given angelic names, but for his mercy, it has been common practice to have a child named Gabriel in every generation.”  
   
“Huh,” Dean said. He was still for a moment, digesting this new information while Castiel pretended not to watch. “Okay,” he said finally. “If I’m taking you at your word here—” and here Castiel bristled, but Dean held up a hand. “Look dude, the story’s kind of a hard sell, okay? Let me get used to it.”  
   
“It is true,” Castiel said stiffly. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”  
   
“Five thousand years is a long time, I’m just saying.”  
   
“Fine,” Castiel said, eyes narrowed. “Well, while you’re deciding whether to keep the entire history of my people on probation, is there anything else you’d like to know?”  
   
Dean chose to ignore Castiel’s snappishness. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “I get what the JI is now, but I still don’t get what the hell that has to do with werewolves and your uh, little Enochian malfunction.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Is the angel thing why Sam’s so shitty at Enochian spells, by the way?”  
   
“He’s not that bad.”  
   
“Dude, it took him a week to light a goddamn candle.”  
   
Castiel brightened. “Oh, did he manage to light it?”  
   
“Yeah, you were sick when he—” Dean stopped himself. They weren’t here to talk about Sam. “Anyway,” he said. “Is that why?”  
   
“It’s easier to do Enochian spellwork if you have an angelic ancestor, yes,” Castiel allowed.  
   
“Okay,” Dean said, nodding. “Okay, I’d believe that. Then why’s yours so screwy?”  
   
“It didn’t used to be.” Castiel examined the palms of his hands as he spoke. “I don’t remember what happened.”  
   
Dean shook his head. “Come on, Cas,” he said. “You can’t tell me you just went to bed normal and woke up nuclear. This is the most important part.”  
   
“I—” Castiel hesitated.  
   
“What?”  
   
“When I was twelve years old, I became very ill. I was sick for weeks. The doctors said I had mono. It started after that.”  
   
Dean grinned wolfishly. “The _kissing disease_? Cas, you dog.”  
   
“I hadn’t been kissing anyone,” Castiel said, annoyed. “They said I probably caught it from sharing a water bottle.”  
   
“Yeah, no one except for strange werewolves.”  
   
“That was much later,” Castiel objected. “Anyway, he wasn’t _strange_. We got to know each other first.”  
   
“Was he hairy?”  
   
Castiel looked at him coolly. “And if he was?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “Hey, whatever turns you on, dude. I’m not judging.”  
   
Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. “It wasn’t what he looked like.” Castiel’s voice suddenly got much quieter, pensive. He fingered the design on the blanket again, tracing patterns like they’d keep him grounded. “It’s what he did.”  
   
Dean recognized that tone. It was the one that Sam pulled out whenever he wanted to have a ‘serious discussion, Dean.’ He braced himself. “And what did he do?” he asked.  
   
Castiel’s gaze flickered over to Dean, as if gauging his reaction to see how much of this, story he really wanted to tell. “He paid attention to me,” he said at long last.  
   
Dean stared at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had to clear his throat in order to get the next sentence out. “This story doesn’t end well, does it?” he said bluntly.  
   
“No,” Castiel said. “Not really.” He linked his hands behind his head, blinking up at the ratty ceiling of the VW bus. “Do you think I’d be here if it did?”  
   
“I guess not.”  
   
“Well reasoned,” Castiel said dryly. Dean made a face at him, breaking the tension of the moment.  
   
“Are Sam and I going to have to hunt him down?”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “No,” he said. “He’s dead.”  
   
The words hung between them for a good long moment.  
   
“My fault,” Castiel added, tonelessly.  
   
Dean finally got his vocal chords back to working again. “This really is going to be a shitty story, isn’t it?”  
   
His throat too tight to speak, Castiel nodded. The corners of his eyes burned, but he was used to that by now. He ignored it.  
   
“All right.” Dean resettled himself, turning fully on the bench seat to face Castiel, hands in his lap. “I’m listening.”  
   
Castiel took a deep breath. “Monsters—what you call monsters. The supernatural. They know what we are, sort of. It takes one to know one, I guess. They can smell it on us.” He let out a strange, breathless little laugh that was anything but humorous. His mouth twisted. “Anyway, they know we can be trusted to remain neutral, as long as the conflict in question involves no humans.”  
   
“You’re Switzerland.”  
   
Castiel’s lip curled a little. “I suppose.”  
   
“The werewolf needed a neutral party?”  
   
“Basically.”  
   
“What for?”  
   
“There are certain ah, _substances_ , that can control the ferocity of a werewolf’s cycle. The main business that dealt in the materials—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean held up his hand. “Is this drugs now? Are we talking about drugs now?”  
   
Castiel nodded.  
   
Dean let his head thump back against the seat rest. “You should sell this story to Hollywood. I bet you’d make a killing.” Castiel looked a little confused at that, so Dean just shook his head and waved for him to keep going.  
   
“Anyway, the business was acquired by one owned by a shifter family, who took advantage of their monopoly and drove up the price to three times the usual. As a consequence, the werewolves were unable to control their cycles to the degree that they were accustomed, and their own investments suffered. Tensions between the two family escalated, and so the werewolves sent a representative to Michael in the hopes of averting bloodshed.”  
   
Dean whistled. “So now we’ve gone from Twilight to Gangs of New Monster.”  
   
A line appeared in Castiel’s forehead. “There were no vampires involved in this,” he corrected. “Just werewolves and shifters.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then apparently changed his mind and shut it again. Castiel took that as a sign to go ahead.  
   
“You have to understand, Dean,” Castiel said, looking determinately down at the floor, “No one had ever paid attention to me like that before. I believed everything he said to me. I…I promised I would do anything I could to make Michael see his side favorably.”  
   
Dean’s expression turned grim. “He took advantage of you?”  
   
“We were found out,” Castiel said. He snorted. “We weren’t exactly subtle, so I guess it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. Michael was furious with me for endangering the delicate talks, and especially our position as a neutral party.” He shivered. “Michael is one of the most powerful among us, and my eldest brother. I’d never seen him so angry. He forbid me to have any more interaction with—”  
   
“Wait,” Dean interjected. He leaned forward. “Michael’s your _brother_?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said slowly, “I thought you already knew that.”  
   
“Nope.” Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Okay, so your main squeeze is trying to manipulate you, and your older brother’s a dick. Then what?”  
   
Castiel grimaced. “Michael may be a—a dick, but he was right. I didn’t see it at the time, but I’ve had long enough to reflect on it. My naivety had consequences. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. As it was, the shifters found out as well. I—I was rebellious. I didn’t listen to Michael, and I met my…”  
   
“Your squeeze,” Dean supplied, helpfully.  
   
Castiel’s eye twitched. “My lover.”  
   
Dean wrinkled his nose. “Whatever, dude. So you met, and?”  
   
“A group of the shifters had followed me. They jumped us.” Castiel’s voice got quieter. “I don’t think they meant it to go as far as it did. I think they wanted to prove to Michael that they knew, to be able to accuse him of playing favorites, rough us up a little. But my—my partner. He didn’t see it that way. He thought they were going to kill us, so he attacked one of the shifters.” He hesitated, then, staring straight ahead said, “They shot him in the heart with a silver bullet.”  
   
“Damn.” Dean exhaled. “That uh—” he cleared his throat. “That really sucks, dude. I’m sorry.”  
   
Castiel jerked his head in a facsimile of a nod. “I killed them,” he said, and his voice was so flat, so emotionless about it that Dean did a double take. “Like in Moscow. I lost control and when I came back to myself, they were all dead.” And now his voice did tremble a little. “That’s how Michael and Inias found me.”  
   
There was a long silence. Dean sat back. “Well, shit,” he said finally, at a loss for anything else to say. “I uh, shit.”  
   
Castiel eyed him. “Yes,” he agreed bitterly. “Shit. And that’s when Michael sent me away.”  
   
“Just like that, huh?” Dean was beginning to get the sense that it wasn’t all Castiel’s fault that he had no actual people skills, if Michael was the sort of guy he had grown up with. “Damn.”  
   
“He told me it was for my own protection, that no one could know what I had done.” He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s what started all the rumors. Some of them just have me sleeping with both sides. Others have me as an uncontrollable killer.”  
   
“Damn,” Dean said again. “That is—that is really terrible. Your brother is terrible.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes flashed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”  
   
“So you just,” Dean made a little gesture. “Like that?”  
   
“I went to stay with Gabriel, one of my other brothers. He’s the one who convinced me to start hunting, so I didn’t feel completely useless. He tried to get me to stop using Enochian altogether, and I tried, Dean. I tried. But every time something would happen, I would panic and Enochian would come out. Then I’d be sick for a few days, Gabriel would force feed me chicken soup, and I’d find another hunt.”  
   
“Well at least he’s not a dick.”  
   
Castiel rolled his eyes. “He’s the worst of them all, actually. But he’s not cruel.”  
   
“Okay, I guess.” Dean thought for a moment. He cleared his throat. “So they never figured out what was wrong with you?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“And you don’t know either.”  
   
Castiel exhaled in frustration. “Do you think I’d be in this situation if I did?”  
   
“Right, right.” Dean took in a breath. “Well,” he said finally. He elbowed Castiel in the side. Castiel scowled at him, rubbing at the spot. “You were right. That was really a terrible, terrible story.”  
   
Castiel squinted at him, as if trying to discern if Dean was poking fun at him. “Yes,” he said after a few seconds. “I am aware of that.”  
   
“I mean, not as bad as like, accidentally killing your entire family or something, or turning into a man-eating monster,” Dean continued. “At least it was a bunch of crooked shifters.”  
   
“That’s not funny, Dean.”  
   
“It is a little bit.” He leaned in, whispering. “Also, Sam totally slept with a werewolf once so I can’t even throw too much shade at you for that. Although the guy does sound like a grade A douche. You need to pick ‘em better.”  
   
“You are not taking this seriously.” And fuck it all, he actually sounded _disappointed._  
   
Dean sat back upright. “I am, Cas. I am.” His voice sobered. “And it sucks, but Cas, everything in this fucked up world sucks. I get you feel responsible, but you didn’t shoot him. So stop carrying that shit around.”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. “Why do I get the feeling that you would never take your own advice?” he said evenly, a ‘ _Maybe regarding something that happened in Moscow_ ,’ just behind his teeth.  
   
“Hey,” Dean pointed at him. “Do as I say, not as I do. That’s the Winchester way.”  
   
Castiel frowned at him again. “That is terrible advice.”  
   
Dean shrugged. “I’m a hunter, not Dr. Phil. What can I say?”  
   
“You could be a little more sensitive,” Castiel grumbled, but Dean could see now that he was trying to hide the beginnings of a smile. Playing it up, Dean batted his eyes. In response, Castiel tilted his head. Dean grinned.  
   
“I am sensitive,” he said with aplomb. He slapped Castiel on the knee and stood to grab the door, hunching over so as to avoid hitting his head on the spotted, rusty ceiling. “Anyway, good talk. Feel better?”  
   
“Not really,” said Castiel, looking up at him. “Was I supposed to?”  
   
“Sam would say yes.” Dean dragged the door open, both of them wincing at the screech. He jumped down.  
   
“Sam is a very sensitive individual,” Castiel observed, climbing down as well. Dean shuddered, slamming the door shut again.  
   
“God I know,” he said. “He traps me somewhere at least once a month to talk about feelings. Like goddamn Oprah clockwork.”  
   
“There is nothing wrong with discussing one’s feelings,” Castiel said severely as they began to walk through the junkyard back towards Bobby’s house.  
   
“Yeah, which is exactly why you were so eager to do it with me.”  
   
“That was completely different.”  
   
“Different, my ass.” Dean snickered. Castiel made a low noise in his throat, but apparently couldn't bring himself to argue the case overly much. As they approached the porch steps, Castiel began to slow.  
   
“Dean,” he said, halting just as they were about to go up into the house. He wrapped his arm around a part of the railing. Dean turned around, eyebrows raised.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“I…understand that you must speak to Sam and Bobby about what I shared with you. But if you could, um, try to be a little delicate about certain parts of it—”  
   
Dean cast his eyes heavenward, then reached for Castiel’s free arm and tugged him into the house. “Yeah, yeah, Cas,” he said. “I don’t think Sam and Bobby are going to care about the werewolf thing. I think they’re going to be more interested in the angel thing.”  
   
Castiel allowed himself to be pulled. “You think?” he queried doubtfully.  
   
Dean stopped so quickly that Castiel almost ran into him. “You’re kidding, right?” he said, peering back over his shoulder, face incredulous. When Castiel shook his head, Dean whistled. “Damn, Michael seriously messed you up, didn’t he?”  
   
Castiel’s expression darkened. He wrenched his arm out of Dean’s grasp. “What do you mean?”  
   
Dean turned around fully, and placed both hands on Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel frowned, looked at Dean’s hands, then back up at Dean’s face.  
   
“What are you doing?”  
   
“Dude,” Dean said after a pause, making sure to choose his words carefully. “You are definitely not the first guy to sleep with the wrong—” he stumbled, then recovered, “—guy. And kill some monsters. Bobby and Sam aren’t going to give a shit about that. They’re going to be way more interested in your whole angel deal. Trust me on this.”  
   
Castiel looked lost. “But I betrayed my family,” he said.  
   
Dean ground his teeth. “Fuck’s sake, Cas. You made a stupid mistake and people got hurt. That happens all the time. Michael’s your older brother—he should have been there to figure out what the hell was wrong with you, not kicked you out. That is an older brother’s job. Trust me, I fucking know.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“But nothing,” Dean said forcefully. He wasn’t sure why he felt so incredibly irritated all of a sudden, but if it could be used to counteract Castiel’s teen melodrama, he wasn’t going to question it. “We’re going to go into the study to tell Sam and Bobby about your freaky angel ancestors, and then we’re going to explain that your brother was too much of self-absorbed dick to be assed to figure out what the hell’s wrong with you. Got it?”  
   
Castiel gazed at him, something about his blue eyes more piercing than usual. “All right,” he said after a long moment. “If you’re sure.”  
   
“Goddamn positive,” Dean replied. He let go of Castiel and began to make his way back to Bobby’s study. “Come on.”  
   
Castiel followed.  
   
 


	8. Chapter 8

“A nest,” said Bobby over morning coffee and break and bake cinnamon rolls. “It has to be a nest.”  
   
“Bobby,” Dean whined. “The only thing worse than South Dakota in the winter is North Dakota in the winter. Can’t you send someone else?”  
   
“Dean,” Bobby said, voice very, very calm. “If you do not get your ass out of my house and go kill something, I’ll throw you out myself. Your pacing is driving me up the goddamn wall.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“No buts, Dean! I’ll be fine looking for facts on one drop angels, on my own. Take your brother, I’ll see you in a week.”  
   
Dean huffed. “Fine. But if you find anything, you call us.”  
   
“Scout’s honor,” Bobby said sardonically. He adjusted his hat and pointed at the door. “Now git.”  
   
Properly chastised, Dean slunk upstairs to begin packing, which was where Castiel spotted him about ten minutes later. He stopped in the doorway, hand on his hip, head tilted quizzically.  
   
“Going somewhere?”  
   
“Bobby’s got a hunt,” Dean grunted, zipping his duffle closed.  
   
Castiel eyes lit with interest. “A hunt?”  
   
“Vamps in North Dakota.” Dean slung his bag over his shoulder. “Sammy, you about ready?” he bellowed down the stairs.  
   
“Fuck off, Dean!” came the faint reply.  
   
Dean smiled. “They’re so sweet when they’re that age.”  
   
“Dean, I’d like to come with you on the hunt.”  
   
Dean stopped short. “Uh,” he said. “Do you, you know. Really think that’d be a good idea?” He gestured at Castiel, who was currently dressed in loose fitting pajama pants and a too-big t-shirt. “You’re not really recovered, are you?”  
   
Castiel pursed his lips. “I thought we were over treating me like I’m incapable.”  
   
“Man,” Dean said, “I’m not saying you can’t hunt. I’m just saying that you were sick like less than two weeks ago. Relapsing isn’t going to help.”  
   
“Then I won’t use Enochian,” Castiel retorted. “I can kill a vampire perfectly fine with a blade. I’m not doing anything useful here, Dean.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean hedged. “I’m really not sure—”  
   
Castiel’s eyes flashed. “I’m coming with you, Dean. The more hunters for a nest, the better. I’ll be ready to go in twenty minutes.” And with that, he whirled around and stalked back into Bobby’s guestroom.  
   
Dean sighed and let his head drop against the window.  
   
“Uh, you okay?” Sam asked, entering the room. At his question, Dean grimaced.  
   
“Just peachy keen, Sammy,” he bit out.  
   
Sam drew back. “What’s gotten into you?”  
   
“Nothing.” Dean looked furtively at the closed door to Bobby’s guest bedroom, and then began to walk down the stairs. “Come on.”  
   
“Uh, can I know why you’re suddenly so eager to get going?” Sam said warily. He followed Dean down the stairs to the front door. “Because—”  
   
He was interrupted by a loud banging noise as Bobby’s guest bedroom door flew open to smash against the wall, and Castiel clattered down the stairs, hair askew, shirt half unbuttoned. He screeched to a halt right behind the Winchesters.  
   
“All right,” he panted, “I’m ready.”  
   
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Uh, are you coming with us? Dean, is he coming with us?”  
   
“No,” Dean said while at the same time Castiel said,  
   
“Yes.”  
   
They glared at each other.  
   
Sam, ( _the traitor_ , thought Dean), nodded. “Okay,” he said. “We’re about to leave, so if you’ve got all your stuff—”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. He hoisted his duffle bag, then dropped it on the floor at his feet. “I’m ready.”  
   
“You said you were going to take twenty minutes,” Dean protested. Castiel crossed his arms.  
   
“Well I didn’t,” he said.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, somewhat snidely. “I can see that.”  
   
“Yes, because you were planning to leave me behind,” Castiel accused. He pointed at Dean’s chest. “I said I’m coming and I’m coming. I’m perfectly capable of hunting.”  
   
Dean drew in a breath. “Cas,” he said. “You know it’s nothing personal, but Sam and I can handle—”  
   
“It is personal!” Castiel cried while at the exact same moment, Bobby bellowed from the kitchen.  
   
“For god’s sake, get the fuck out of my house! All three of you! If I see you before the week’s out then you’re sleeping in the backyard!”  
   
Dean’s mouth snapped shut. “We’re not done talking about this,” he hissed at Castiel as he turned and yanked the front door open.  
   
“I look forward to it,” Castiel said serenely. He watched with interest as Dean turned an unhealthy shade of purple and stalked towards the Impala, fuming. “Does he always do this?” he asked Sam, who was observing the proceedings with growing alarm.  
   
Sam looked thoughtful. “No,” he said. He grabbed his own duffle and began to walk out to the car. “It’s just you.”  
   
Castiel frowned. He opened his mouth to ask what exactly Sam meant by that, but by the time he had gathered his thoughts together, Sam was already halfway down the steps to the car. Castiel hurried to catch up, lest he be left behind.  
   
The silence in the car was suitably awkward.  
   
“I can’t believe we’re going to a town called ‘Dickinson’,” Dean grumped after about three hours of oppressive quiet. “Who the fuck came up with that name?”  
   
“Probably a Mr. Dickinson,” Sam said dryly.  
   
“There’s a town in Oregon called Boring,” Castiel offered from the back seat.  
   
Dean pressed his lips together. Sam eyed him.  
   
“You ever been there?” he asked, when it became clear to Sam that his brother was doing like a twelve year old and giving Castiel the silent treatment.  
   
“No. I thought it would be…not very interesting,” Castiel admitted. He settled himself a bit more comfortably in the worn leather of the seat.  
   
“Gee, wonder why?” Dean muttered, apparently unable to help himself.  
   
Another hour passed. They stopped at a gas station off of I-29. Dean went inside to stock up on beef jerky and fritos. Castiel looked discomfited.  
   
“Cas—”  
   
“I don’t understand what Dean is so upset about,” Castiel burst out, as soon as Dean was out of sight. “Haven’t I proven myself enough?”  
   
Sam sighed. “He’ll get over it,” he said. “He’s just…uh.”  
   
“He’s being unreasonable,” Castiel huffed. “I’m not an invalid.”  
   
“No, I know that.” Sam twisted around in his seat, fighting with the seatbelt as it dug into his lip. “Dean knows that too,” he added.  
   
Castiel gave him a look. “Which is exactly why he tried to leave me behind.”  
   
“Well,” Sam squirmed. “You have been sick,” he tried to point out, as Dean exited the gas station back to the car. Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but as soon as he spotted Dean, his expression morphed into a scowl.  
   
“Dean,” he said.  
   
“Uh, yeah?” Dean said, after a beat.  
   
“I’m not an invalid,” Castiel said, very firmly. (Sam covered his eyes with the palm of his hand). “You don’t need to treat me like one.”  
   
Dean stilled. “You _really_ want to do this now, Cas?” he said to the rearview mirror.  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. “I’m just saying,” he said huffily. “I—”  
   
“—wasn’t even out of bed until four days ago—”  
   
“—and I’m perfectly capable of using a machete—”  
   
“—and that goddamn angel language. What, you gonna be in a coma next time?”  
   
“All right!” Sam said, very loudly. Two pairs of jaws audibly snapped shut, and two sets of eyes turned to glare at him with equal levels of heated irritation. Sam reveled in it, just a little bit. “Dean,” he said, “why don’t you keep driving.” He ignored the sound of grinding teeth as he turned to Castiel. “And Castiel,” he said, “does your phone have internet?”  
   
“I—” Castiel cast a glance towards Dean, who was facing forward, looking like he had been cut from stone. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel. “Yes,” he said reluctantly.  
   
“Great,” Sam said. “You can help me with the research.”  
   
Despite the lone presence of a robin in Bobby’s yard that morning, teasing that spring was on its way, they entered Dickenson, North Dakota to a light snowfall. Dean parked the impala outside the first motel he spotted, its neon lights flashing ‘ **acancy** ’ like a beacon.  
   
“They need to fix their sign,” Castiel observed, tilting his head upward. In the gathering darkness, he could just make out the plastic shape of the unlit first letter.  
   
Dean grunted. “Gets the point across.”  
   
Castiel turned as if in surprise. “Oh, are you speaking to me now?”  
   
Dean’s eyes bulged for a second, before he whirled around and, shoving his hands into his pockets, headed for the entrance.  
   
Sam crossed his arms. “You did that on purpose,” he said, as soon as Dean was out of earshot. A small twitch at the corner of Castiel’s mouth gave him away.  
   
“No.”  
   
“Dude,” Sam said, “it’s like you’re poking a sleeping bear.”  
   
“I wouldn’t.”  
   
Sam narrowed his eyes. He adjusted the collar of his jacket to prevent the snow from creeping in. “Uh huh.”  
   
Castiel turned fully, blue eyes ever so innocent. “Sometimes,” he said, “every bear needs a good poke.” He grimaced. “Or so my brother Gabriel tells me.”  
   
“He’s going to bite your head off next time.”  
   
“Or,” Castiel countered, “he’ll see that I can stand up for myself and cease treating me like a disobedient child.”  
   
“Or he’ll just handcuff you to a chair.”  
   
Castiel blinked. “He wouldn’t. That would be irrational.”  
   
“He did it to me once.” Sam neglected to mention that at the time, he had been a moody fourteen year old who had accidentally gotten into some substances best left to those properly trained to handle them, and probably would have gone after an entire herd of werewolves, given half the chance.  
   
Castiel hummed thoughtfully. “What would you suggest, then?”  
   
“Honestly?” Sam thought for a moment. “Dean’s not so good with talking—”  
   
“Shocking”  
   
“For him,” Sam continued, “actions have always been more important.”  
   
“Actions speak better than words.” Castiel nodded. He fiddled with the lock on the car door. “I see.”  
   
Sam had a feeling that Castiel wanted to ask further, but he was stopped when Dean came tromping through the snow back towards them.  
   
“Two queens and no rollaway,” he said. “We can rotate on who gets the floor.”  
   
Sam made a face, getting out of the car as well. “Why don’t we just share?”  
   
“Dude,” Dean said, “The last time I share a bed with you, you took up all the space and kicked me off.”  
   
“So?”  
   
“So, if I’m gonna end up on the floor anyway, I might as well start there.”  
   
“You and Castiel can share then,” Sam asserted.  
   
Dean and Castiel, who had just slammed his door and stood with his shoulders hunched and shivering, exchanged an uneasy glance.  
   
“I’ll take the floor tonight,” Castiel said abruptly.  
   
“What? No!” Dean protested. He waved at Castiel who, to be fair, did not look well in the pale light cast by the streetlamps. “You’re sick.”  
   
“I’m not sick, I’m recovered. You have been driving all day, you should get a bed tonight.”  
   
“I can’t take a bed if I know your sick ass is sleeping on the floor—”  
   
“Oh my god,” Sam interrupted. “Just draw straws or something. But can we not do it in the parking lot?”  
   
They unlocked the room in silence. They drew straws. Sam ended up on the floor that night.  
   
The following morning found them at a police station, then the morgue, then a bar, and then the morgue again. That evening found them outside the creepiest, ramshackle mansion on the outskirts of town that one could possibly stick into their gothic horror novel. It had steeples, and little carved gargoyles, and the wind whistled eerily through the entryway, straight towards the cemetery in the back. Also, it was empty.  
   
“Nothing,” Dean muttered. He kicked over a rotting piece of plywood. “Not a goddamn vamp for driving all the way out here.”  
   
“It’s odd,” Castiel murmured.  
   
Dean waited for him to finish. When he didn’t, he sighed. “What’s odd?”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “The only signs of vampires we’ve seen have been in the morgue.”  
   
There was a beat.  
   
“Shit,” Dean said.  
   
(“Shit,” Sam said also, but he was actually _in_ the morgue at the time, and distracted with trying to chop off the head of a man who had inexplicably risen from the stainless steel autopsy table.)  
   
Dean and Castiel locked eyes. Dean’s phone rang.  
   
“Sammy?” he demanded.  
   
“I found ‘em!” Sam tinny voice yelped. “Morgue! Morgue!”  
   
By the time dawn appeared, five vampires had been dealt with, the staff at the local clinic was suddenly and inexplicably down several members, Dean had incurred one speeding ticket, and Castiel had called dibs on the first shower.  
   
He emerged, hair dripping, and pushed past a waiting Dean only to trip on a bit of carpet and collapse straight onto the nearest bed. Sam was already sprawled out and dead to the world on the other one, so Castiel figured fuzzily that he was lucky he had at least crashed on the one without any occupants. The coverlet was rough on his cheek, but he couldn’t summon the energy to shift under the covers instead of just lying on top of them. He closed his eyes, but felt energy thrumming under his skin. He was too tired to do anything, but too wired to sleep.  
   
Castiel snorted, a bit miffed when about ten minutes later he felt the unmistakable weight of someone _else_ ’s body settling on the bed next to him.  
   
“Dean,” he growled.  
   
“Fuck off,” Dead groaned. “I’m not sleeping on the floor tonight.”  
   
“I was here first.”  
   
“You went to kindergarten, didn’t you? Learn to share.”  
   
Castiel rolled over. “You said you didn’t want to share with me.” He poked Dean in the side for emphasis. Dean twitched away from it.  
   
“I didn’t mean it like that, okay?”  
   
“Yes you did.”  
   
Dean groaned again. “Come on, Cas. Don’t kick me out. You didn’t want to share either.”  
   
“I was here first.”  
   
“Ugh, you’re almost worse than Sammy sometimes, you know that?” Dean bunched up a pillow underneath his head and sort of squirmed, sort of flopped into a more comfortable position. From the next bed over, Sam let out a terrific snore. Castiel was startled enough that his eyes popped open, and before he could turn away, he and Dean had caught each others’ gazes and then swiftly turned away to hide their snickering.  
   
“I don’t snore like that,” Castiel managed, when he had himself back under control.  
   
Dean shook his head. “No one snores like that. Kid’s a freak of nature.”  
   
Castiel smiled a little.  
   
“Hey, uh, your knives are pretty sweet,” Dean said conversationally, after a few moments of silence.  
   
“My what?”  
   
“You know,” Dean made a motion that, if he had been standing and holding a machete, rather than lying on his back empty-handed, might have looked like the motions one would make when decapitating a vampire. He almost smacked his hand into Castiel’s face, but caught himself at the last moment and just sort of lightly tapped his stomach instead. God, it was like lying next to a furnace.  
   
“Oh,” Castiel said, wondering if he should swat Dean’s hand away, then deciding that he really didn’t have the energy to. “Thank you. They were a gift.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel yawned. “For my thirteenth birthday.”  
   
“Huh,” Dean said. “Kind of a heavy thing to give a kid. ‘Course I can’t talk because my dad gave me a shotgun for my thirteenth birthday. Who gave ‘em to you?”  
   
“The JI.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
Castiel shifted, whether it was accidentally or on purpose Dean couldn’t tell, but it practically put their bodies flush up against one another. “It’s an important birthday,” Castiel murmured. “When a boy becomes a man.”  
   
Half trapped by Castiel’s warmth, and half by his own body’s sudden, and rather Pavlovian reaction to it, Dean said the first thing that came to mind. “Like in Werewolf Bar Mitzvah?”  
   
Castiel kicked him in the shin, but stayed close. Now their legs were entangled too.  
   
“Ow,” Dean grumbled. “That hurt.”  
   
“Good,” Castiel said.  
   
“You're actually worse than Sam,” Dean decided. “He only kicks me in his sleep.” He flinched as Castiel made to kick him again, and turned onto his back. “I thought silver wasn’t any good for a blade?”  
   
“It’s blessed,” Castiel said.  
   
“Blessed?”  
   
“An Enochian blessing. To keep the purity of silver with the strength of steel.”  
   
“Huh. Cool. We could use those.”  
   
“I don’t know how they’re made.” Castiel’s lips were right next to his ear now, his breath warm as it ghosted over Dean’s neck. Dean couldn’t help shuddering. Something was clearly wrong with him. “It’s a trade secret.”  
   
“Yeah?” Dean managed.  
   
Castiel drew back a little, rolling his eyes. “Yes. Dean, are you all right?”  
   
“I, uh. I’m fine, Cas.” Which was a lie, totally a lie, because whenever Dean fought something like vamps, it always got his blood pumping and now his blood was _really_ pumping.  
   
And Castiel looked at him, really looked. Dean flushed, all too aware now that his face was red, his pupils were probability dilated, and oh god he was sporting a chubby _obviously_ visible and right next to Castiel’s leg.  
   
This was Castiel’s fault, somehow. Dean was sure of it. Definitely Castiel’s fault for still managing to be some kind of avenging ninja badass with his stupid knives, even without the Enochian, and also for telling Dean stories about his gay werewolf adventures that Dean had certainly _not_ spent the past couple of days thinking about.  
   
Also he was still high on all the adrenaline from the fight. Yeah, that was it. Definitely the adrenaline was a factor here.  
   
“Dean?” Castiel said, perched up on one elbow, peering down into him like he was, maybe worried that Dean had hit his head or something. His eyebrows furrowed; he licked his lips.  
   
“Cas…” And Dean did not sound plaintive. He did not. But Castiel was there, being all warm and right next to him and a smartass and Dean just wanted to—  
   
He wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, although he had an uncomfortable inkling that it was himself who grabbed Castiel by the shoulders and yanked him back down to Dean’s face level, but Castiel’s lips were wet where he had licked them, and a little chapped. Castiel made a noise almost like surprise, but then his fingers were in Dean’s hair, and he was swinging one leg over so that instead of tangled up right next to him, he was now tangled up on top of him.  
   
Castiel scooted forward and Dean tossed his head back with a groan as they rubbed up against one another. His hands moved from where they clutched at Castiel’s shoulders down to press into the muscles of his back, make their way underneath his shirt. Castiel retaliated by rolling his hips and mouthing a little at Dean’s ear, which was nice. He left one hand curled around the back of Dean’s head, while the other wandered to Dean’s chest, slipped beneath his shirt, and tweaked at the nipples there.  
   
It was the squeezing of Castiel’s thighs that galvanized Dean with enough energy to flip Castiel over onto his back, and crawl on top of him. He wasn’t really sure where this was going, or how it had started but just at that moment, he really couldn’t give a damn either way. He found Castiel’s hands and grasped them, pinning him down before following with lips and just a hint of teeth, all the while rocking, rutting his pelvis down into the v of Castiel’s legs. Castiel shut his eyes, cried out a little “ah, ah,” sound, and then opened them again. His eyes flashed a warning and then suddenly—  
   
Dean was on his back again. Castiel sprawled on top of him, smiling, triumphant, grinding down for all he was worth,  He rolled his hips, hard against Dean, and Dean didn’t, couldn’t do anything but lie there and take it as Castiel’s hands skittered along his sides, Castiel’s lips crashed into his, and his mouth was wet and warm and there were sparks going off in the back of Dean’s mind as Castiel moaned into his mouth and collapsed on top of him while Dean bucked up once, twice into him and was gone.  
   
They breathed in.  
   
Dean exhaled, waiting for his heart to slow. On top of him, Castiel burrowed his face into Dean’s neck. And, practically forgotten in the bed on the other side of the room, Sam snored on, thankfully oblivious.  
   
“Cas,” Dean whispered. He shoved ineffectively at the dead weight on top of him, the coldness in his boxers and the fear of Sam waking up to realize what they’d done, enough to shake off the post orgasmic sleepiness. “Cas!”  
   
Castiel muttered something, but otherwise didn’t move. Dean meanwhile, managed to squirm out from underneath him. He poked at Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel grumbled and turned over.  
   
Fuck. Dean scowled. The bastard had actually gone and fallen asleep on him. Dean made a face down at him, and then slowly sat up, rubbing his now swollen lips absently with the back of his hand. His groin still tingled a little. With clear reluctance, he swung his legs over the side of the bed before tottering over to his duffle and a clean pair of boxers. He stepped out of the dirty pair, wiping himself off as best as he could, then wadded them up and stuffed them in a side pocket, very firmly trying not to think about what had just happened.  
   
Dean made his way back to the bed, lethargy creeping into his limbs with every step. He managed to lie down, pondered for a second whether or not it would be inappropriate to maybe curl up a little closer to Castiel’s warmth, and then thought ‘fuck it,’ swung his arm across Castiel’s waist, and was out like a light.  
   
When he was aware again, the sun was streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, Sam was typing away at his laptop, and the shower was running.  
   
“’Scas?” he slurred.  
   
“Shower,” Sam answered distractedly. “Been in there since I woke up.”  
   
Dean rubbed at bleary eyes. He smacked his laps. God, his mouth tasted like cotton. “How long you been up?”  
   
“About ten minutes.”  
   
Dean shook his head. “And already on the computer? You’re an addict, Sammy.”  
   
“Fuck off.”  
   
The shower stopped. Dean, mouth dry, laid off on bothering his brother in exchange for frantically finding a way to appear as normal as possible. So when the bathroom door cracked open and a fully dressed and clean Castiel emerged, Dean was busy refolding all of his shirts and stuffing them in his duffle, while Sam looked strangely at him from across the room.  
   
“Oh,” Dean said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. What was the etiquette for punch-drunk makeouts with someone who wasn’t quite a friend, but wasn’t quite not a friend either? “Hey, uh, Cas.”  
   
Castiel blinked at him, face impassive as ever. But Dean could totally spot what looked like a hickey on the bottom of his neck, just beneath the collar. So at least it hadn’t been crazy fever dreams. Probably. “Hello.”  
   
Sam’s gaze switched back and forth between the two of them. Dean broke out into a sweat.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said. He stepped forward, into Dean’s space.  
   
“Ah,” Dean floundered. “Yes?”  
   
“I need to get to my bag,” Castiel said. He tilted his head. “Are you all right?”  
   
Dean swallowed. “Oh yeah, sorry. No, I—I’m fine.” He stepped aside, aware that both Sam and Castiel were staring at him now. “I’ve just gotta, uh, go. Take a shower, that’s all. Be right out.” And he fled for the bathroom.  
   
By the time Dean came back out of the bathroom, he had managed to calm his jittery nerves enough so that Castiel brushing his hand nonchalantly past his ass as he stepped outside to the car, only resulted in a slight jump to the side, rather than a full-fledged leap into the snow covered hedges.  
   
“Bobby called,” Sam said, still looking a little concerned as he watched Dean twitch and Castiel stride off in the direction of the car, bag slung over his back, looking downright cheerful. “Dean.”  
   
“Huh?” Dean tore his gaze away.  
   
Sam was looking at him, open-mouthed. “Were you checking out Castiel’s ass?”  
   
“What?” Dean exclaimed. “No, I— _no_ , Sam. What. Why would I do that?”  
   
Sam frowned. “Well, dude. Whatever, you were doing, focus. Bobby called.”  
   
“And?” Dean said impatiently. If he craned his neck just right he could catch a glimpse of Castiel standing to shut the impala’s trunk, and his coat rode up just the slightest bit to show a sliver of skin at his hip—  
   
“Dean!” Sam snapped.  
   
Dean’s eyes found his brother’s face again. “What?”  
   
“Dude, what is wrong with you?”  
   
Dean swallowed, crossing his arms. “Nothing, Sam. I’m fine. Jesus, what did Bobby call about?”  
   
“He said he had an idea about how to help Castiel, actually,” Sam said. He looked confused as Dean’s attention came to rest more fully on him. “Okay, and now you’re listening to me?”  
   
Dean pursed his lips. “Well it is kind of important, Sammy,” he shot back.  
   
“Uh huh.”  
   
Dean stomped his snow-covered boots on the ground, then rubbed his hands together. “Well?”  
   
“Uh,” Sam said, still looking a little bit suspicious, “He knows this psychic, lives about four hours away from him. Said we should go pick her up.”  
   
“What, and she can’t drive herself?” Dean grumped. “We’re not a taxi service.”  
   
Sam threw a bitch-face at him. “Well apparently she’s blind, Dean. So no, probably not.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again as Castiel came trudging back up to them.  
   
“Who’s blind?” he asked.  
   
“A psychic named Pamela Barnes,” Sam replied, all the while watching Dean’s face go from normal to pale to red. “Bobby thinks that she might be able to help you. With your uh, thing. What do you think?”  
   
Castiel bit his lip. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve never talked to a psychic before. How does Bobby think she can help?”  
   
“By digging into your brain, that’s how.”  
   
“Oh, come on, Dean,” Sam said. “Just because Missouri caught you out the _one time_.”  
   
“I was violated,” Dean hissed. He straightened, apparently recovered enough to stop turning colors and also to stop eyeing Castiel like he was going to explode at any moment or—whatever it was he was doing. Sam wondered if he should check for possession and coughed “ _Cristo_ ” into his sleeve. Dean dug into his pocket and handed him a tissue like Sam was still five years old. Sam sighed.  
   
“Missouri?” Castiel ventured.  
   
“Friend of the family,” Sam said, before Dean could open his mouth and ruin everything. “She used to catch Dean doing all sorts of shit, but this one time—”  
   
“Anyway, this Pamela isn’t Missouri so we don’t need to talk about that,” Dean announced, shoving Sam lightly towards the car.  
   
Castiel looked a little uncertain as he followed them back over. “Do you know this Pamela?”  
   
“No,” Sam admitted. “But if Bobby says she’s good then she’s good. Who knows, maybe you’ve repressed something that she can dig out.”  
   
Castiel’s brow furrowed. He plucked at the sleeve of his coat. “Maybe.”    
   
Dean sighed as he slid into the car, and started her. He drummed his fingers on the wheel as he let the engine warm up and waited for Sam and Castiel to settle themselves. “Did Bobby say where she lives?”  
   
“Yeah, uh,” he consulted a piece of paper. “Minneapolis-St. Paul.”  
   
“Man,” Dean complained. “That’s kind of out of our way.”  
   
Sam shrugged. “Do you have anything better to do?”  
   
“We’re going in circles,” Dean grumbled, even as he shifted the car into gear. He caught a glimpse of Castiel’s eyes, intense and very blue, in the rearview mirror. His throat fell dry. He coughed. “All right back there, Cas?” he asked, voice light.  
   
“Never better,” Castiel returned dryly.  
   
“Right.” Dean colored a little. “Minneapolis-St. Paul. Man, why can’t Bobby know people who live in Venice Beach or something?”  
   
“Just drive, Dean,” Sam said wearily.  
   
“I’m just saying,” Dean said, as they peeled out of the driveway and towards the freeway. “Someday, I’d like to spend our time somewhere tropical, is all.”  
   
“Kauai is nice,” Castiel put in from the back seat.  
   
“Like Kauai,” Dean agreed, as Sam shook his head and leaned against the window.  
   
An eight-hour drive through slushy grey skies later, and Sam was starting to find himself inclined to agree with Dean’s wish for a tropical paradise.  
   
“I’m starting to hate snow,” Sam said, eyeing the crisp whiteness lining what Bobby had said was Pamela Barnes’ front lawn. The house itself was a two story brownstone, very respectable looking, in a neighborhood with wide streets and evenly spaced elm trees. Their bare branches swept and rustled in the evening wind.  
   
Dean parked the car. “This the place?”  
   
“That’s what Bobby said,” Sam confirmed, double checking the address. He got out, stretching his back, and wincing at the several pops he heard in his spine. Dean and Castiel followed him up the icy brick path to the door. Dean knocked. No one answered. Dean knocked again.  
   
“Huh, looks like no one’s home.” Dean turned. “Well, might as well find someplace to sleep and come back in the morning—”  
   
The door swung open.  
   
“—or not,” Dean said, facing back around. “Uh, hi. Are you Pamela?”  
   
The woman standing in the entrance smiled. “Pamela Barnes,” she said, reaching out confidently and shaking Dean’s hand. She reached for Sam’s next. “You must be those Winchesters Bobby’s always talking my ear off about. Come on in.” She held the door open, adjusting her sunglasses as she did so. “Sorry about the lights,” she said. She grinned at Dean and Sam’s stupefied faces. “As you can see, I don’t really need them.”  
   
“Uh,” said Sam, intelligently. “Well.”  
   
“Well don’t worry, Sammy,” said Pamela. “Even if I can’t see, I can still feel my way around quite nicely.” To prove the point, she squeezed his shoulder, and then his bicep. Sam swallowed.  
   
“And you must be Castiel,” Pamela said, finally turning to the third member of their little group.  
   
“I am,” Castiel said. “It is nice to meet you.” He shook her hand as well.  
   
“Well,” Pamela said, “You are the gentleman. Lucky for you, eh Dean?”  
   
Dean’s jaw dropped. Sam shot him a suspicious look.  
   
“I, uh,” Dean stuttered. “Yes?”  
   
She smiled. “Good.” Then she looked back at Castiel. “Hmm, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you before. You’re very interesting, Mr. Novak.” She reached out to touch his face, but Castiel caught her hand before it reached him and gently clasped, then lowered it. She studied him for a second further, and then she nodded. “Okay, sugar.”  
   
“So, uh,” Dean said, glancing back and forth between Castiel’s stare, so serious, and Pamela. “Bobby said we should give you a lift?”  
   
“Yes, I would appreciate that.” Pamela turned to smile at him. She pushed her dark hair back behind her ears. “Bobby seems to be worried that what we’re going to do might draw too much attention, so he prefers we get inside Castiel’s head in his fancy basement fallout shelter.”  
   
“Really?” Sam frowned. “Why?”  
   
Pamela lifted her shoulders once. “Hard to get a read on a guy over the phone, Sam. But now that I’ve met you three, I have some suspicions.”  
   
Dean crossed his arms. “Oh yeah?”  
   
“Oh yeah,” Pamela said. She laughed. “I can tell you’re trouble.”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.  
   
Dean mouthed, _is she coming on to me?_ And Sam looked equally unnerved, while Castiel trod absently on Dean’s foot.  
   
“Ow,” Dean said.  
   
Pamela shook her head. “Trouble,” she repeated, and smiled.  
   
Pamela’s guest room had two twin beds. The three of them looked at each other, before Castiel said quietly, “I can take the fold-out couch downstairs,” and left before Dean could open his mouth.  
   
“Uh, did something happen between you two?” Sam asked later, as they brushed their teeth.  
   
Dean spat out his toothpaste, and splashed water on his face. “Like what?”  
   
“I don’t know.” Sam looked hesitant. “Another fight or something? You’ve been acting weird all day.”  
   
“No, Sam, we didn’t fight,” Dean said, making sure to roll his eyes for extra effect. “Goodnight.”  
   
Sam watched his brother in the mirror, and it was only as Dean turned the corner in the hallway out of sight, that he realized that he hadn’t quite answered the question.  
   
At precisely 01:57 am, Dean’s eyes shot open. He lay still for a moment, trying to sense what had woken him. Sam was still asleep in the other bed; he could hear his heavy breathing. The air was still, silent. Something gripped his shoulder. Before he knew what he was doing, Dean had sat up and grabbed whatever had touched him. He was just about to demand an explanation, when he recognized the shape in front of him.  
   
“Cas?” he croaked out, relaxing his hold. “What are you doing?”  
   
“Shh,” Castiel murmured. He placed a finger on his lips, and tugged at Dean’s wrist. Bemused, Dean followed as Castiel lead the way through the darkness down towards the second floor bathroom. He pulled Dean inside, flicked on the light, which turned on the fan too. Dean winced at the sudden brightness while Castiel shut and locked the door behind him.  
   
Dean rubbed at his eyes. “Cas, man, what’s going on?” He dropped his hands to his sides as he finished blinking the sleep away. “What?”  
   
Castiel stared at him. His hair was sleep-mussed and wilder than usual, his pants hung low on his hips. His tongue skittered over dry lips, and Dean shook his head to clear away the cobwebs.  
   
“Uh, Cas?”  
   
“Do you regret it?” God his voice was like sandpaper. He crowded Dean up against the bathroom sink.  
   
“What?” Dean said hoarsely, caught off guard. One hand gripped the tiled counter behind him. “Dude, personal space.”  
   
Castiel peered at him. Dean began to feel a little flustered. “Last night. Do you regret it?”  
   
“Uh, what? Why? Wait," he said, realizing. "We’re going to talk about this _now_?”  
   
Folding his arms, Castiel heaved out an impatient sigh. “I don’t know if you usually sleep with men, Dean, so first I want to know: do you regret it?”  
   
“First?” Dean was definitely missing something here. He pushed gently at Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel reluctantly moved back a little. “First what?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes pierced him. “First, I need to know if you regret it. If you do, I’ll leave you alone. We don’t have to mention it.”  
   
Dean swallowed. He looked up and down Castiel’s form. There was no question what _it_ was. “And uh, if I don’t?”  
   
“Then,” Castiel said, his voice definitely lower than usual. “I would let you know that I don’t either.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “And why are we talking about this in the bathroom at two in the morning?”  
   
Castiel dropped to his knees. “Because,” he said, “I don’t want to disturb your brother.”  
   
Dean’s eyes widened as Castiel’s hands gripped his hips. He stumbled backwards and found himself leaning against the counter, the side of it digging into his back. “Uh, Cas, I gotta tell you. This isn’t really what I was expecting from you…” his breath hitched as Castiel palmed the front of his boxers.  
   
“Is that a no?” Castiel queried politely, glancing up at him through his eyelashes.  
   
“No— _no_ , it’s definitely not a no, Cas. I just—are you okay?”  
   
Castiel sat back on his heels. “Dean,” he said primly. “I am trying to live in the moment here. Now, are you going to let me give you a blowjob or not?”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. He watched as Castiel licked his lips again. “Well,” he hedged, “I mean, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you living in the moment or anything.”  
   
“Good,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. And he reached forward to pull down Dean’s boxers.  
   
“It’s always the quiet ones,” Dean said with a gasp as his eyes rolled back. “Jesus.”  
   
Castiel let up with a pop. “That’s not my name. Say my name.”  
   
Dean choked out a laugh. “Okay, sorry Cas. Ah, Castiel. Cas. Cas!”  
   
“Much better,” Castiel rumbled, and swallowed him down.  
   
The following morning, Sam was the first one up. He tossed a look over at the other bed, and was a little amused to see Dean sprawled across the comforter, dead to the world. As he padded down the stairs, he saw that Castiel, curled at the center of the fold-out couch, the covers bunched beneath his chin so that only his dark hair was showing, was similarly unconscious.  
   
Pamela appeared at his elbow. “Let them sleep,” she said. “They were up late.”  
   
Sam frowned. He could have sworn that Dean had been in bed before he was. Still, he shrugged it off and allowed Pamela to lead him into the kitchen.  
   
“I don’t cook much these days,” she said, “but you’re welcome to some cereal or toast.”  
   
“Thanks,” Sam said. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Are you sure you don’t want to get on the road or anything?”  
   
“Nah,” Pamela waved him away. “It’s less than half a day’s drive. Let them sleep in. I get the feeling Dean’s grouchy when he doesn’t get enough.”  
   
Sam smiled a little at that. “You have no idea.” He blinked as something occurred to him. “Hey, uh, you don’t have coffee, do you?” He had one vivid memory of encountering Castiel before he had had any coffee, and had made a solemn vow never to experience it ever again.  
   
Pamela pointed. “I keep some for guests,” she said. “Up there.”  
   
“Okay, thanks.”  
   
And like magic, as soon as the coffee finished brewing, there was Castiel, stumbling bleary-eyed into the kitchen.  
   
“Morning, Castiel,” Sam greeted warily, handing off his own, just-filled mug. Castiel grunted in response, then took a long gulp of liquid.  
   
“Hello grumpy,” Pamela said before he could warn her, as Sam looked on in horror. “Sleep well?”  
   
Castiel took another long sip. “Very well,” he said finally. “Thank you.”  
   
Another half hour passed, while Castiel gradually reverted back to his usual, civilized self, and Dean came whistling down the stairs.  
   
“Sleep well, Dean?” Pamela asked, and Dean, honest to god, smirked at her.  
   
“You know it,” he said. He swung around the kitchen, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder as he headed for the coffee pot. Sam stared. “Morning, Cas,” he said breezily. He caught a glimpse of Sam. “You okay, Sammy?”  
   
“Uh,” Sam said faintly. “Yeah?” He racked his brain for some kind of explanation. Had Dean slept with Pamela? No…he wouldn’t. Would he?  
   
“Okay,” Dean nodded. “Well, good.” He took a swig of coffee, then wiped his mouth. “Think we could be on the road in thirty?”  
   
“Sure thing, boss,” Pamela said. Castiel raised his mug in a facsimile of a toast.  
   
“I think so.”  
   
Sam meanwhile, stayed silent, gaze darting between the three of them, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.  
   
They made it to Bobby’s a bit before two in the afternoon. Pamela stepped out of the car laughing into Bobby’s embrace, while Dean wolf-whistled and Castiel smiled his little half-smile.  
   
“You boys deal with those vamps all right?” Bobby asked gruffly, as he let go of Pamela and ushered them inside.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean drawled. “Got a lot of heads. Cas over here has a mean swing with those knives.”  
   
Bobby looked heavenward. “Don’t know why you’re surprised about that, Dean, boy’s been training with ‘em all his life.”  
   
Dean pouted a little as Bobby turned to Castiel. “Stay off the Enochian?”  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “I managed.”  
   
Bobby looked him up and down for a moment, then nodded sharply, satisfied. “Good.”  
   
“So,” Pamela said. “Are you ready for this, Castiel?”  
   
Castiel swallowed. His eyes briefly met Dean’s, then he looked down at the floor.  
   
“It can wait until we’ve all rested a little, can’t it?” Dean asked, stepping forward a little. Sam gawked at him, while Pamela smiled knowingly. But Bobby shook his head.  
   
“No, Dean,” he said. “It can’t. The sooner we know what’s going on with this, the better.”  
   
“It’s fine.” Castiel raised his head. “It’s fine, Dean. Really.” He glanced at Pamela. “What do I need to do?”  
   
Bobby lead them down to his panic room, and Castiel sat down on the daybed propped up against the wall. “I need you to relax,” Pamela told him.  
   
Castiel breathed in. “All right,” he said. He closed his eyes.  
   
“That’s good. Just like the meditation Sam told me about.”  
   
“You told her about that?” Dean murmured in an undertone to Sam. “Why?”  
   
“She was curious.” Sam shrugged. “She could’ve read my mind, anyway.”  
   
“Now Castiel,” Pamela was saying, “how are you feeling? Are you feeling relaxed?”  
   
Castiel exhaled. “A little nervous,” he admitted.  
   
“That’s all right. Take all the time you need.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
Pamela settled herself on a chair next to Castiel, waiting for several moments. Finally she announced, “Castiel, I’m going to touch your face now. Is that all right?”  
   
A pause, and then, “Yes.” Castiel’s voice sounded a little slurred. He breathed in and out quietly. His eyes remained shut. “I don’t mind.”  
   
“All right,” Pamela said gently. She placed her hand on Castiel’s forehead. “Castiel, do you remember why we’re here?”  
   
“I—” Castiel hesitated. “You want to find out what’s wrong with me.”  
   
“That’s right. Something happened to you. Something changed you, when you were a boy. When you were twelve years old, you said. Do you remember?”  
   
“I…” Castiel sighed. “I was very sick. I was sick a long time.”  
   
“Yes, I know,” Pamela said. “Do you remember why you were sick?”  
   
“It was mono…Michael said I was in the hospital.”  
   
“Michael, your brother, Michael?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Why don’t you tell me about your brother?” Pamela suggested.  
   
Castiel’s eyes fluttered underneath his eyelids. “Which one? Michael…?”  
   
Pamela drew back a little, the corners of her mouth wrinkled in consideration. “How many brothers do you have?”  
   
“I…” Castiel seemed to think for a moment. “Four—no, three. And one sister. I’m the youngest.”  
   
Behind them, Sam and Dean exchanged a mutual, _dodged that bullet_ look. Pamela leaned in. “I’m sorry, Castiel,” she said. “But how many brothers did you say you have?”  
   
“F-three,” Castiel breathed. “And one sister.”  
   
“Castiel, why did you say you had four brothers before?”  
   
“I don’t know.” Castiel twitched a little. “I have three brothers.”  
   
“Castiel, what happened to the fourth brother?”  
   
“I don’t know.”  
   
“Think, Castiel,” Pamela urged. “What about when you were younger? Ten years old? Nine?”  
   
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Castiel’s voice rose. Pamela placed a hand on his arm, and shook her head as Dean made to move towards them. Dean sat back down with a grumble.  
   
“Okay, that’s okay,” she soothed. “Tell me their names.”  
   
“Michael,” Castiel replied, after a moment, settling down. “Gabriel. Inias. Anael.”  
   
“Anael is your sister?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“And Michael is the eldest?”  
   
“Much older than I, yes.”  
   
“And then Gabriel?”  
   
Castiel smiled. “Gabriel is the middle child.”  
   
“The second born?”  
   
Castiel frowned. “No, he’s the middle. And then Anna.”  
   
“So Inias is the second born?”  
   
“No, he was after Anna,” Castiel corrected.  
   
Pamela nodded. “And what was that other name? You’re forgetting one.”  
   
“I’m not.”  
   
“Yes, Castiel. Think. Who came after Michael?”  
   
“I…” Castiel stiffened. “I…”  
   
“Think, Castiel. Who are you forgetting?”  
   
Castiel swallowed, his eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumped back against the bed, breathing harsh in the stillness of the room. “Adriel,” Castiel said softly. “Michael’s twin.”  
   
Pamela nodded. She squeezed Castiel’s shoulder. “Can you tell me about Adriel?”  
   
Castiel’s breath hitched. “Adriel’s dead.”  
   
“I’m sorry.” She exchanged glances with Bobby. “How old were you when he died?”  
   
“I…I was…” Castiel’s lips twitched into a frown. “I was sick. Michael came to me. He said Adriel was dead. He said not to speak of him again. But I remembered…”  
   
“What did you remember?”  
   
“I saw him. I saw him leave. But he wasn’t Adriel anymore.”  
   
Pamela leaned in. “What do you mean?”  
   
“I don’t know I…”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“…He approached me.” Castiel’s voice suddenly sounded much more confidant. “He said he had been paying attention to my progress, in my lessons. He said I was talented.”  
   
“Were you?”  
   
Castiel nodded. “I was a prodigy.” He said it without any pride, like it was just a simple fact to be stated. “Gabriel used to make fun of me for it.”  
   
“But Adriel didn’t?” Pamela guessed.  
   
Castiel shook his head. “He asked me for a favor.”  
   
Pamela paused. “What favor?”  
   
Castiel smiled. “He said he had been working on a spell. An Enochian spell, and that he needed help. He asked if I would help anchor it.”  
   
“And did you?”  
   
“Of course.” Castiel pursed his lips. “He was my brother. I was proud that he thought to ask me. That he thought I could do it.”  
   
Bobby’s face looked like thunder. “Ask him what kind of spell it was,” he hissed. Pamela shot him a quelling look, but repeated Bobby’s question.  
   
Castiel’s face scrunched up. “I don’t know. Something about…water? I think he was worried about a drought.”  
   
Bobby ground his teeth. “Ask him—”  
   
“I _know_ , Bobby, be patient,” Pamela said under her breath. “Give me a moment.”  
   
Bobby settled back, grudgingly, muttering dire words about allowing twelve year olds to anchor spells.  
   
“Is that bad?” Dean murmured to Sam. Sam shrugged.  
   
“Sounds like something big,” he said. “Nothing the MOL would’ve let us touch at that age. Anchoring can mess with you.”  
   
“What did the spell need?” Pamela asked.  
   
“Not much,” Castiel said. “I just needed to anchor it.”  
   
“And what did that entail?”  
   
“Blood,” Castiel said, his voice very far away. “My name written in my blood.”  
   
Dean made a face. “And we’re still sure this isn’t witchcraft?” he said uneasily. Next to him Bobby was practically having an apoplexy, a vein pounding in his forehead, while Sam’s mouth dropped open.  
   
Pamela ignored them both in favor of Castiel. “Just yours?”  
   
“No,” Castiel breathed. “Adriel’s too.”  
   
“And did you do the spell?”  
   
“Adriel did.”  
   
“And what happened?”  
   
Castiel didn’t answer.  
   
Pamela frowned. “Did the spell work?” she tried.  
   
“I…” Castiel sucked in a deep breath, his body suddenly seizing. Pamela stood up so quickly she knocked the chair over.  
   
“Hold him down!” she commanded, as Sam and Dean hurried forward, grabbing his wrists. Bobby pounced on his legs as he kicked and thrashed.  
   
“There was light!” Castiel sobbed, twisting in their grasp. “It burned, it burned, oh god—”  
   
“Castiel—”  
   
“And It took Adriel,” Castiel choked out. “And I saw his face but it wasn’t him anymore—”  
   
“Castiel, can you hear me? Castiel!”  
   
Castiel froze. His body suddenly slackened. Sam and Dean glanced at each other, before slowly letting go of his wrists. Bobby stood as well, although he kept one hand on Castiel’s leg.  
   
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.  
   
“Castiel?” Pamela said cautiously.  
   
Castiel sat up. His eyes opened, but instead of their normal blue, they glowed white-hot. Bobby let go immediately and moved several paces back, eyes on Castiel the entire time.  
   
“Yes?” he—it—intoned.  
   
Pamela opened her mouth, but for a second, nothing came forth. Finally she said. “What are you?”  
   
It, whatever _it_ was, tilted Castiel’s head. “I do not understand your query,” it said. “I am Castiel.”  
   
“No,” Dean growled, hands fisted at his sides. “You’re obviously not. Give him back.”  
   
“I am Castiel,” it repeated.  
   
“You son of a—”  
   
Bobby caught his arm before he stumbled forward, yanking him back. “Dean!”  
   
“Damn it, Bobby, something _has Cas_.”  
   
“Shut up, you idiot, or you’re going to get us all killed.”  
   
“But—” Bobby shoved him into Sam, who, though startled, managed to grab onto his brother.  
   
The thing eyed them curiously. Bobby stepped up next to Pamela. He wiped sweaty hands on the side of his jeans. “Castiel?” Bobby said, voice shaking a little.  
   
It narrowed its eyes. “I am Castiel.”  
   
“Okay.” Bobby moved closer. “Castiel, why are you here?”  
   
“I was called.”  
   
Bobby shut his eyes. “Yes, I can see that. Can you—uh, go back?”  
   
“I do not understand the query.”  
   
“Can you—return?”  
   
“I do not understand.” Its eyes began to glow brighter. Bobby lurched back  
   
“Can you just,” Dean interrupted, voice hoarse, “ _give him back_?”  
   
The thing’s attention suddenly switched over to Dean. Its gaze bored into him, and Dean, feeling some monkey instinct, immediately braced for his own destruction.  
   
And then, oddly, it stopped. It looked down at the body it inhabited. “You refer to this?” it said flatly.  
   
“Yes,” Dean grit out.  
   
It hesitated, and Dean could have sworn it looked confused as it said, “Very well.” And then it looked back up at Dean. “But next time I am called, I shall not be so merciful.”  
   
And then Castiel was slumping forward like a puppet whose strings had been slashed, and Dean wrestled free of Sam to catch him just before he hit the ground.  
 


	9. Chapter 9

Dean paced back and forth, swigging from Bobby’s flask. “What the hell?” he repeated shakily. “What the hell.”  
   
“I don’t know, Dean,” Bobby sighed. “But I’m telling you, there was a real goddamn angel taking up residency in your friend down there. And I don’t know if he’s actually _gone_ or if he’s just napping. Hell, I don’t even know how he got in there in the first place!”  
   
“What, he’s like, possessing Cas?” Dean demanded. “How the hell does that even happen?” He slammed the flask down on the table.  
   
“Bobby you must have some idea,” Sam said quietly. “You’re the only one who realized what he was.”  
   
“Oh, great, _some idea_ , Sam. Not helpful!” Dean snapped.  
   
Bobby rubbed his face with the palm of his hands. “Christ, kid. I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is something went wrong with that spell. But that was more than a decade ago. I’d think someone would’ve noticed the whole _angel_ thing, don’t you? Kinda hard to miss.”  
   
“Do you think the JI knew?”  
   
Bobby shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam. They had to have known something was off, but this? Not exactly what first comes to mind.”  
   
Dean stopped pacing long enough to take another drink from Bobby’s flask. “I’m going to go down and check on Cas,” he said. “Going to see if he’s woken up yet.”  
   
“Be careful,” Bobby warned. “We left him in there for a reason. Who knows what’s going to be there when he opens his eyes. It might be Cas or it might, well. Be _Castiel_.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I know.” He stood very still for a moment, fingering the inlay on the doorway, his head down, before he took a deep breath and left the room.  
   
Bobby turned to Sam. “What’s with him?”  
   
Sam gave a helpless motion of the shoulders. “Got me,” he said. “He’s been acting weird around Castiel for days.”  
   
“Oh yeah?”  
   
Sam sat down, reaching for yet another one of Bobby’s books. “You know, it’s like one minute they hate each other, the next Dean won’t let Castiel out of his sight.”  
   
“Huh.” Bobby scratched at his beard. “That’s kinda odd. Of course, Dean latches on to anyone who looks like they could use a good meal and a hug and stands still long enough,” he conceded. “And Castiel sure has that going for him.”  
   
“Castiel can take care of himself,” Sam said. “I think Dean’s just—I don’t know.”  
   
“A goddamn mother hen?”  
   
Sam choked a little on his sip of water. “Don’t let Dean hear you call him that.”  
   
“I ain’t afraid of him.” Bobby pursed his lips. He shoved some papers out of the way, and pulled out a new book from his pile.  
   
“You’ve never had him stuff cough medicine down your throat, all the while mocking you for being a pussy,” Sam said, voice wry.  
   
“He ain’t done that to Castiel though,” Bobby pointed out.  
   
“Not yet.”  
   
Bobby looked pensive for a moment. “You don’t maybe think that Dean’s acting so worried because they, you know?”  
   
Sam frowned. “That they’re…?”  
   
Bobby waggled his eyebrows.  
   
“Oh!” Sam’s eyes widened in realization. Then he shook his head. “No, Bobby, Dean? You think?” He made a face. “Not Dean.”  
   
“Hey, I’m just saying. Dean’s acting weird around Castiel. You said it yourself.”  
   
“Yeah, but.” Sam laughed. “Dean and Castiel, Bobby? They’ve been at each others throats since day one.”  
   
Bobby stretched to retrieve his flask. “That don’t mean nothing,” he said, taking a sip.  
   
Sam frowned. “Still,” he said. “It doesn’t seem very likely. I mean, maybe if Castiel was a _girl_ …” he trailed off.  
   
“Sam,” Bobby said gravely. “I love you like my own son. But you’re an idiot.”  
   
“Oh my god,” Sam said. He looked at Bobby accusingly. “Wait, did Dean tell you something?”  
   
Bobby rolled the flask in between his fingers. “No.”  
   
“Bobby,” Sam protested. “Don’t you think I’d _know_ if Dean, uh, you know. Liked guys?”  
   
Bobby stood up with a groan, massaging his lower back. “Does it really matter?” he asked, as he headed toward the other room. “Remember Sam, you were gone for a while. Maybe Dean’s got some stuff he hasn’t told you. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of stuff that you haven’t told _him_.”  
   
Sam stared after him like a puppy that’s just been told he can’t come inside. “No, no,” he said, frowning. “I’m not saying that it _would_ matter. I just.” He ducked his head. “Maybe I should ask Dean?” he said meekly.  
   
“Then why the hell are you asking me?”  
   
“Right,” Sam said to the book in his lap. He flipped it open to a random page, ran his fingers down the worn paper and faded Latin. “Right.”  
   
Down in the basement, Dean leaned his head against the cold iron door to Bobby’s panic room. He could see Castiel, still lying prone on the daybed, through the slot. His eyes were closed, and he breathed shallowly. His hands lay on his chest where Pamela had arranged them once they had managed to get him to lie down. Dean swallowed. Castiel looked different like that. Defenseless. Nothing at all like the sharp-witted man he had come to know these past few weeks. No…Dean wiped his brow. It had been almost two months since they’d first met, last Christmas. Jesus, was that all? It felt longer.  
   
After another moment gathering himself, Dean slowly pulled the door open. It creaked a little, but Castiel didn’t stir. Dean stood in the center of the room for a few more seconds, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. Fuck, what was he even _doing_ in here?  
   
Sitting down in the chair Pamela had taken before, he began to reach out, maybe to hold Castiel’s hand, then paused. Cas probably didn’t even want Dean to hold his hand, he reasoned. That would be weird to wake up to, never mind the part about being in some freaky ghost prison. So instead, Dean let his hands settle into his lap. He exhaled, leaning back against the chair, and watched Castiel’s face for any sign of wakefulness.  
   
Time passed. Dean dozed, his head rolling to the side, his arms loose and dangling. When he woke, there was no change, save the crick in his neck. Dean’s shoulders slumped a little. He massaged the side of his neck, then stretched out his legs, rotating his ankles.  
   
He was just about to stand up and go get something to drink—anything to distract him from this, really, when Castiel’s eyelids fluttered.  
   
Dean immediately leaned forward. “Cas?” he said. “Cas?”  
   
Castiel groaned. His eyes cracked open. “Dean?” he rasped. “What…what happened?” Realizing he was lying on a bed, still dressed, he struggled to sit up.  
   
“Whoa, dude,” Dean said, catching Castiel’s attempts and restraining him with one hand on his chest. Castiel looked pointedly at the hand, then glared at Dean.  “Hey,” said Dean defensively. “You’ve been out for hours. At least give it a second.”  
   
Castiel scowled a little, but then nodded reluctantly. “This situation is becoming uncomfortably frequent,” he noted.  
   
Dean huffed out something like a laugh. “You’re telling me, man.”  
   
“What happened?” Castiel asked again, slowly sitting upright this time, which Dean allowed.  
   
Dean’s gaze flickered from Castiel’s face to the wall, then back to Castiel. “You don’t remember?”  
   
“No, I…” Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Pamela was asking me questions. She made me think about things. People I had not thought about in a…very long time. And…” He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands.  
   
“And?” Dean prompted. He gripped the side of the chair, rising a little. Castiel swallowed, looking paler.  
   
“Adriel,” he said. He shook his head quickly, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe I’d forgotten that. What happened to him.”  
   
Dean looked down at his shoes. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Um. Bobby thinks that whatever you—he—did. It’s probably what affected your Enochian.”  
   
Castiel let out a breath. “That would make sense. Also…” he trailed off, blinking fiercely, staring down at his lap. Dean dropped back into the chair, his arm not quite extended all the way towards him, hovering a little bit over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel seemed to take that as an invitation however, and reached up to grip Dean’s hand like an anchor, his fingers curling tightly around Dean’s.  
   
“I’m sorry he died,” Dean said quietly. “Or, you know. Whatever happened to him.”  
   
Castiel nodded. “I’m sorry too.”  
   
They stayed that way for a heartbeat or two, while Castiel collected himself. He took deep breaths, like meditation, and let them out just as slowly, like memories unfurling.  
   
“Do you remember anything else?” Dean made himself ask, when it became clear that Castiel wasn’t going to speak unless prompted.  
   
Castiel inhaled, eyes closed. “I remember Adriel,” he said. “I remember his request, and I remember the preparations, bleeding,” he shook his head. “Writing my name, saying the words Adriel had given to me. But after that it’s all,” he frowned. “It’s all very strange.”  
   
“Strange how?”  
   
He hesitated. “All I can remember is light. And a burning sensation. Here.” He let go of Dean’s hand to touch his chest. “And here.” He passed his hand over his eyes, lingering at the corners.  
   
Dean shifted in his chair. “Did it ever come back?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel glanced down at the palms of his hand. He clenched them into a fist. “I—whenever I’ve been frightened or, or cornered I suppose. Any adrenaline, really. I can feel it coming on.”  
   
“Whenever you’ve used Enochian,” Dean said, realizing.  
   
“I didn’t realize it could hurt people,” Castiel whispered. “I thought it was just…symptoms. Leftovers from being so sick. I thought maybe, maybe fever had cooked my brain or something, Dean.” Their eyes met, Castiel reaching for him again, shadows behind his bloodshot gaze. “I didn’t know.”  
   
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said. “We know. We’re not blaming you, okay? You were just a kid, for crying out loud.”  
   
Castiel swiped at the water trailing on his cheeks. “Is everyone all right? I didn’t hurt anyone this time, did I? When the brightness came.”  
   
“No,” Dean said, and watched as Castiel sagged in relief against the pillow. “We're all fine, but…” he trailed off.  
   
“But?” Castiel questioned. At whatever he saw in Dean’s face, his expression grew grave. His back straightened. “Dean, what do you mean?”  
   
“Well.” Dean hesitated. “You’re uh, you’re probably not going to like this very much. So you have to promise not to freak out or anything. Bobby’s working on it, I swear, okay?”  
   
“You’re not being very reassuring,” Castiel said, tension obvious in the clip of his voice, the wary cast to his face. “What do you mean?”  
   
Dean glanced away. “It’s about Castiel,” he heard himself say.  
   
Next to him, Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t understand. What about me?”  
   
“No.” Dean sighed. He looked back at him. “Not you,” he said. “The other Castiel.” He caught Castiel’s stare, confused, worried, and wished he could have just kept his mouth shut. “The original,” he said finally, “the angel.”  
   
Silence followed his pronouncement. And then, Dean was forced to watch as those words, and their meaning, slowly penetrated Castiel’s understanding. His eyes widened. Dean saw as he took in the information, digested it and then, eventually, came to some internal decision. His mouth firmed, he lifted his chin.  
   
“Tell me everything,” said Castiel. And for the briefest of moments, Dean saw in his resolution an eerie likeness between the two: an angel, and his namesake.  
   
Bobby hadn’t really expected Dean to spend the night in the panic room with an unresponsive Castiel. So he was unsurprised to hear the clomp of Dean’s shoes make their way back upstairs and into his study come midnight. He was a bit taken aback however, with what Dean brought with him.  
   
“Castiel,” Bobby greeted, lowering his book. He shot a glance at Dean, who shrugged, though he kept a steadying grip on Castiel’s shoulder. “Good to see you’re uh, up and about.”  
   
“Maybe for the time being it would be best if you just called me Cas,” Castiel said, clearly catching the edge to Bobby’s tone. He settled gingerly on the couch, face pale. “So as to avoid any confusion.”  
   
“I see,” Bobby said, trying to catch Dean’s eye but failing as Dean innocently glanced away. “I’m guessing Dean told you?” He blew air out of the corner of his mouth. “How’re you feeling?”  
   
“Fantastic,” Castiel said flatly. “How would you feel if you’d just been told you’ve somehow been possessed by an angel?”  
   
Bobby snorted. “That good, huh? Not feeling too angelic at the moment now, I take it?”  
   
“No, thankfully.” Castiel tilted his head. “Dean said you might have some idea what happened?”  
   
At that, Bobby got up, gathering papers about him, moving books from one side of the desk to the other, until he found what he was looking for. Castiel watched as Bobby came towards him, holding out two books in particular.  
   
“Angel lore,” he said, dumping one blue-velvet covered volume into Castiel’s lap. Castiel picked it up, scanning the title. “Familiar?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. He smiled tightly. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Required reading, you might say.”  
   
“Good.” Bobby held out a second book. This one was leather, embossed with what looked like gold thread. “What about this one?”  
   
Castiel took it and opened it. It was written in Greek. “No. What is this one?”  
   
“Book on witchcraft,” Bobby said. He sat down on the couch next to Castiel. “Old, old magic.”  
   
“How old?” Castiel traced the cover.  
   
“Well, it’s bound in human skin,” Bobby said. Castiel immediately jerked his hand back. Dean made a disgusted noise. “Over a thousand years, at least. Got some nifty little spell on it, to keep the pages fresh, so it’s hard to tell.”  
   
“Where did you get it?”  
   
Bobby scratched at his beard. “There was a coven up in New York, maybe twenty years ago. Caused a hell of a lot of trouble. They had it.”  
   
“I see.” Castiel handed it over to him, grimacing. “Why are you showing it to me?”  
   
“It’s old magic,” Bobby said again. “Blood spells, mostly. Nasty stuff.” Castiel dipped his head.  
   
“Yes,” he murmured. “You think the—the blood. That Adriel and I used. Our blood. You think that had something to do with it?”  
   
Bobby placed the book aside, on top of the other one. “Not just the blood, Cas,” he said intently. When Castiel just looked confused, Bobby tugged the angel book out from underneath the second one and flipped through the pages, stopping somewhere near the middle. “Here.” He shoved it under Castiel’s nose. It showed a complex Enochian script, bound on all sides by a six-pointed star.  
   
“A sigil?”  
   
“A blood sigil,” Bobby said.  
   
“But,” Castiel said. “I didn’t write any sigil. I just wrote my own name.”  
   
Bobby nodded grimly. “In Enochian, right?”  
   
“Of course.” Castiel squinted. “It wouldn’t have worked otherwise.” He watched as Bobby passed a hand over his eyes, shaking his head. “Bobby?”  
   
Bobby took the book from him. “Castiel,” he said. “You didn’t write your name in blood. You wrote his.”  
   
Castiel’s mouth opened a little in surprise, or maybe shock. Behind him, Dean’s breath caught in his throat. “No,” Castiel said shakily. “No, that’s impossible. I wrote _my_ name.”  
   
“You wrote his name in your blood and you must’ve, called him down.” Bobby looked at him, expression intent. “A spell like that? How’s the angel supposed to know the difference?”  
   
“But—” Castiel pressed a fist to his mouth. “I haven’t been—he hasn’t been here the whole time,” he trailed off, glancing up at Bobby. “Has he?”  
   
“I don’t know, son,” Bobby said. “But something Pamela did must’ve shook him, or the memory of him, loose. Hell, we don’t really even know what an angel _is_ or what it’s capable of. Lore’s all over the place.”  
   
Castiel traced the edges of the blood sigil written in the book. “How do I get rid of him—it?”  
   
“I don’t know.” Bobby looked sympathetic. He finally managed to make eye contact with Dean, whose lips were pressed in a thin line. “I don’t even know if we can do anything. Hell, he let you go at the end. Maybe he’s already gone?”  
   
“No,” Castiel said thickly. “I think I would feel different, if he were gone. I think I’d know.”  
   
“Come on, Bobby.” Dean stepped forward. “There has to be something.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Bobby said. “But there isn’t. Least that I can find. There’s nothing about angels possessing people, or even what kind of angel _Castiel_ is, except for the Thursday thing.” He turned to Castiel. “I’ll keep looking,” he said. “But I just don’t know.”  
   
Castiel gave a short, jerky nod. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He stood, placing the book on the side of the couch gently.  
   
“Hey, are you gonna be all right?” Dean asked.  
   
Castiel swallowed. He folded his hands together, steepled in front of his mouth like a prayer. “I’ll be fine,” he said. He glanced towards the stairwell, then back at Dean and Bobby. “I just, need some time to think.” He shook his head as Dean moved forward. “Alone,” he said. “Sorry.”  
   
Dean fell back, trying for a smile and failing. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, uh. Take, you know. Time.”  
   
“Guestroom’s empty,” Bobby indicated towards the stairs with his pencil. “Sam took Pamela back home while you were out. He’ll probably be back tomorrow.”  
   
“Thank you,” Castiel said.  
   
Bobby and Dean watched as Castiel slowly made his way upstairs, rubbing his temples a little, like they ached. When he had disappeared from sight, Dean plunked down heavily on the couch where he had been. He took the velvet-covered book, keeping well away from the other one, and thumbed through it. After a moment though, he closed it, tossing it to the side, and sitting sullenly with his arms crossed.  
   
Bobby raised an eyebrow. “You all right there, Dean?”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
“Uh huh.” Bobby tapped the pencil on his check. “Something you want to tell me?”  
   
“Not really.”  
   
_Tap, tap, tap._ “Nothing about you and uh, Cas up there?”  
   
Dean looked up at him. “What are you talking about?” he asked tiredly. “I’m just worried about the guy, okay?”  
   
“So you’re not sleeping with him,” Bobby said, eyes narrowing.  
   
Dean twitched. “What?” he said, voice faint. “No, Bobby, no. Why would you think that?”  
   
Bobby eyed him pointedly, letting the silence stretch out.  
   
“Okay, fine,” Dean snapped. “It was one time, okay?” Bobby snorted. Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, two times,” he huffed. “But that’s it. It was just some, some adrenaline thing, okay? We were both just really wired, and had just killed all those vamps and—damn it Bobby, stop looking at me like that.” Dean ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t know he was possessed by an _angel_ at the time.”  
   
“But you knew _something_ was going on,” Bobby countered. “Dean…”  
   
“Hey,” Dean said, pointing at him. “Sam totally slept with a werewolf that one time.”  
   
“We’re not talking about Sam,” Bobby said. “We’re talking about you.”  
   
Dean scowled down at the floor. “Cas is a good guy,” he said. “I mean, he’s neurotic as fuck and shit at holding a normal conversation, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not evil or anything.” A beat. “I trust him,” he said to the frayed rug beneath his feet. “He’s saved my ass more than a few times. Even if he is a self-righteous asshole about it.”  
   
Bobby sighed. “I know,” he said. “I know he’s your friend, Dean. I just want to make sure. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. And if things go south with Castiel…I just want to be sure you’ve got your head on straight enough to make the right call.”  
   
Dean nodded.  
   
“Although,” Bobby added slyly, “maybe ‘straight’ isn’t the word I should be using here…”  
   
A pause.  
   
“Oh, fuck off,” said Dean.  
   
He stayed on the couch that night. After Bobby finally wound his way towards his own bedroom, with help from Dr. Whisky as much as Dean’s prodding to ‘just go to bed, Bobby. Jesus. _I_ want to go to bed,’ Dean found sleep elusive. The couch sagged in odd places and Dean was still creeped out by that damn witchcraft book lying on Bobby’s desk, just out of reach. He turned over, T-shirt twisting as he tried to get comfortable, staring out the window at the dark.  
   
“Damn it,” he said to the ceiling, and got up, padding his way upstairs, mindful of the creak on the fourth step.  
   
He eased the guestroom door open, not even bothering to knock, and stood there for a moment, shadowed. From what he could make out in the gloom, Cas looked like he was sleeping, his chest rising and falling steadily. Dean hesitated.  
   
“Cas?” he said softly. “Are you awake?”  
   
The lump on the bed shifted. “No.”  
   
“Cas—”  
   
Castiel sat up. “I’m not really in the mood, Dean,” he said. “Not tonight.”  
   
“What?” Dean blinked, taken aback. His mouth slackened as he realized what Castiel meant. “What—no, dude. I’m not here for that. Jesus.”  
   
“No?” Dean couldn’t see him, but he could imagine Castiel tilting his head, like he always did. “Oh. My apologies. Why are you here then?”  
   
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep,” he offered. And then, “Thought you might want some company or something. You know.” He gestured, though he knew Castiel probably couldn’t see it. “Better than your own head, sometimes.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
Taking Castiel’s lack of an outright refusal as permission, Dean moved further into the room. He sat on the bed, close to Castiel’s knees. “Okay?”  
   
“I don’t usually sleep with people,” Castiel said. He didn’t move.  
   
“You slept with me,” Dean felt obligated to point out.  
   
Castiel rubbed at his eyes. “No, I mean. Sleep, sleep. That was different.”  
   
“I’m just keeping you company,” Dean told him. “Now move over.”  
   
There was a bit of a pause and then, grumbling a little, Castiel shifted to the side. Dean lay down next to him on top of the covers.  
   
“See?” he said. “Not so hard.” He nudged Castiel’s side with his elbow. Castiel blew air out of the corner of his mouth.  
   
“I guess.”  
   
“Good.” Dean was quiet for a moment. “Are you uh, doing okay?”  
   
“I’m fine, Dean.”  
   
“I mean, I just want to make sure you’re not, you know. Freaking out too much—”  
   
“I would rather not talk about it.”  
   
Dean changed positions a little, trying to get comfortable. His hand brushed the back of Castiel’s. He left it there, not daring to look over at Castiel, prickly as he was, staring up at the ceiling instead. “Okay.”  
   
They lapsed back into silence.  
   
“Goodnight,” said Castiel quietly, after a few minutes had passed. Dean grunted a reply, already almost drifting. But Castiel seemed to deem it acceptable. He turned over under the covers, and Dean heard him sigh.  
   
Somewhere in there, between midnight and morning, they both slept.  
   
Castiel awoke first. He lay still for a moment, oddly comforted by Dean’s gentle snoring. Eventually however, he eased his way out from under the covers, careful not to disturb his bedmate. He pulled on a sweater and his only clean pair of pants (the jeans again, oddly enough), and made his way downstairs. He was unsurprised to see that the only other person who was up that grey morning, was Sam.  
   
“Hello, Sam,” Castiel said, as he passed him on his way to the kitchen.  
   
Sam looked up from his laptop. “Oh, hey Castiel.”  
   
“Just ‘Cas’ is fine,” Castiel said. He stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster, and then moved to fill up a mug of coffee. After a considering pause, he pulled out a second one and filled that up too. He retrieved his toast, buttered it, and handed the second mug of coffee to Sam as he came back into the room. “Might avoid some confusion,” he said, sitting at the table. He bit into the toast.  
   
“Thanks.” Sam took the coffee and blew on it. “So uh, Dean and Bobby filled you in?”  
   
“They did.” Castiel grimaced. “I’m told it was all very frightening. I’m sorry if you felt like you were in danger.”  
   
Sam snorted, then laughed. “Oh, Cas,” he said, still chuckling a little. “Honestly if we didn’t go a day without something crazy happening, I’d probably worry.”  
   
Castiel managed to let loose a small smile. “Still,” he said. “It must have been unnerving.”  
   
Sam shrugged. “It happens.” He turned back to his computer. “No one’s dead, so could have gone much worse.”  
   
“Very reassuring,” Castiel returned dryly. He looked over at the laptop screen. “What are you researching?”  
   
“Not angels, sorry,” Sam said. He brushed hair out of eyes, turning the computer so that Castiel could get a better glimpse. “I’m trying to look up the guys that were after us. With all that’s been going on, we totally forgot about it.”  
   
“Oh,” Castiel said around his piece of toast. He swallowed it down. “The necromancers.”  
   
“Wait what?” Sam said. He slid forward. “How do you know they were necromancers?”  
   
Castiel gave him an unimpressed look. “They had bound spirits to do their bidding. Didn’t you wonder how they managed to toss you and Dean into the wall?” He sneered at little. “The lowest of the low.”  
   
“Wow,” Sam said. “You uh, really don’t like those guys, do you? You’re absolutely sure they were necromancers?”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. “The Nazi party boasted a number of well-known necromancers,” he said. “We’ve held a significant grudge ever since. I know one when I see one.”  
   
“We, meaning the JI?”  
   
Castiel gave a shark jerk of his head. “Not to mention the atrocities required for the art.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “You have never encountered them before?”  
   
“No.” Sam nodded towards the computer. “This is the first time I’m hearing about them.  
   
“Odd,” Castiel said. “But they were after you two, specifically. Or so they told me. I assumed that it was some sort of revenge on their part.”  
   
“Revenge?”  
   
Castiel wiped crumbs of his mouth. “I thought maybe you had killed one of their own, or something to that effect.” His eyes narrowed in thought as Sam shook his head. “But why would they have sought you out then? That doesn’t make any sense.”  
   
“You got me,” Sam said, although now there was a renewed pit in his stomach at Castiel’s confirmation that it had indeed been him and Dean who they had been after. “What else did they tell you?” he couldn’t believe he hadn’t even thought to ask Castiel already. Although to be fair, life had been rather distracting lately.  
   
“Not much.” Castiel took another sip of his coffee. “They knew me.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Although I’ve ceased being surprised when that happens, it’s always unnerving.”  
   
“I never would have thought there’d be such a strong, supernatural gossip chain,” Sam commented.  
   
“Nor I, until I was one of the favored topics.” Castiel swiped his fingers through his hair. “It was…rather alarming, the first few times. Especially since at the time I didn’t know what, precisely, was even wrong with me.” He bit into the last part of toast. “And now that I know it’s not exactly any better.”  
   
Sam made a sympathetic noise. “Bobby will figure something out,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if it was for Castiel’s benefit, or for his own. “He’s gotten us out of a lot of scraps in the past.”  
   
“I know, Sam. But if he doesn’t.” Castiel let the thought linger in the air between them, then shook his head, looking up at Sam. “If it turns out that there isn’t anything that can be done. I’ve made my peace with it. I just want to make sure that you…and Dean,” he added, mouth quirking up a little. “I don’t want you to feel responsible.”  
   
“Cas,” Sam said, “you could not stop Dean feeling responsible if the devil himself showed up and claimed the blame.”  
   
Castiel settled more comfortably into his seat. “I was afraid of that,” he muttered. He frowned, tilting his head back. “But Jews don’t believe in the devil, Sam.”  
   
Sam couldn’t help himself. He laughed.  
   
The morning plodded on into afternoon, back into evening, and then the next. A week passed. Castiel tried to keep busy, reading lore, translating some more obscure Hebrew and Aramaic texts for Bobby. He told Sam and Dean what he knew about necromancers, and watched as the two exchanged worried looks.  
   
Strangely enough, though he was too distracted to even stomach the idea of sex, Dean didn’t seem to mind. He left when Castiel told him to, and kept him company when Castiel allowed it. He even joked, once or twice, about reaching his own little taste of heaven, and Castiel didn’t even punch him for it. Well, maybe a little.  
   
One Monday, having found no success in his research, Castiel called Gabriel. But when he tried to explain all that had happened, the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he expressed his concerns about the necromancers, and that they had been looking for the Winchesters. That they wanted them for something.  
   
“Necromancers,” Gabriel repeated. His voice sounded more sober than usual. “I’ll look into it, Cassy. They’ve been pretty quiet lately.” He coughed. “Are you okay?”  
   
“I’m fine,” Castiel said. He turned to look through the doorway to the kitchen. Dean was folding something out that looked like a piecrust, humming. Castiel turned away.  
   
“Are you sure?”  
   
Castiel set his shoulders. “Yes, I’m fine. Just busy.”  
   
“Okay, later then.”  
   
After saying his goodbyes, Castiel hung up.  
   
There was an apple pie for dinner that night, but Castiel could only manage a few bites. He pretended not to notice Dean’s disappointment.  
   
Almost a week later, the call came. Castiel had been considering if there would be any consequences to him just lying in bed for at least the rest of the morning, but when his cell phone rang, he groaned and forced his eyes to open.  On the other side of the room, Dean paused where he was putting on his shirt.  
   
“You going to get that?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel muttered. Without looking at the number on the screen, he pressed to answer and put the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”  
   
“Castiel?”  
   
At the voice, Castiel shot upright, blankets tumbling off him. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, standing. “Michael?”  
   
Dean turned around, looking startled at how quickly Castiel had gone from zero to sixty. _Michael_? He mouthed. Castiel nodded distractedly.  
   
“Yes, I—sorry Michael. You what?” he listened for a moment, and then something in his expression changed, became more wary. “You’re sure?”  
   
Dean stepped towards him, his eyes questioning, but Castiel averted his gaze.  
   
“Yes, of course, but I—do you really think that’s for the best?” He waited a moment, listening. “No, I know it’s not that. I just, I’ll have speak to them first. Yes. Yes. Yes, I’ll call you back. Goodbye.” He hung up, looked at the darkened screen for a moment, then tossed the phone into the middle of the bed. He sat down hard on the mattress.  
   
“Was that your brother?” Dean came forward.  
   
Castiel glanced up. “Yes,” he said. He bit his lip.  
   
“Well?” Dean asked. “What did he want?”  
   
For a moment, Castiel didn’t answer. Then he said, “He wanted to talk about the necromancers. I’m sorry, Gabriel must have told him.”  
   
Dean looked considering. “And that’s all?”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “No, actually,” he said. “He had a…an offer. I told him that I’d have to discuss it with you and your brother first.”  
   
“An offer,” Dean repeated. He plopped down on the bed, causing Castiel to give him an exasperated look as the phone bounced. “What, for you?”  
   
“No,” Castiel said. “For you two.”  
   
“For us?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel stood up. “Your brother will want to hear about it too. Let’s go downstairs.”  
   
Dean stood as well. He adjusted his jeans, then ran his hands through his hair. “Okay. Oh, wait. Cas.”  
   
“What?” Castiel said impatiently, almost to the door. Dean gave him a pointed stare, and Castiel looked down at his bare chest. “Oh.”  
   
“Yeah, buddy. Might want to put on a shirt.”  
   
“Right,” Castiel muttered. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”  
   
When Dean clattered downstairs, Sam met him in the living room with a very blank expression.

“Dude, what?” Dean asked, somewhat perturbed.  
   
“Are you and Cas sleeping together?”  
   
Dean froze. “No,” he said slowly. “We’re just, uh. Why would you think that?”  
   
Sam’s expression did not change. “You’ve been sneaking out of his room for the past two weeks.”  
   
Dean tried for a disarming grin. “Now Sam,” he started.  
   
“You gave him a massage two days ago in the kitchen.”  
   
“Because we’re _friends_ , Sam. I swear to god—”  
   
“You never give me massages.” Sam crossed his arms.  
   
“That’s ‘cause you’re an asshole who can’t mind his own business,” Dean retorted. He tried to shove past him, but then remembered that he was actually supposed to be collecting him, and stalled for a second, trying to think.  
   
“I don’t mind, Dean.” Now Sam had pulled out the puppy dog eyes. “I just want to make sure—”  
   
“If you’re about to tell me you want to make sure that Cas isn’t going to, I don’t know, break my heart or something, I will punch you,” Dean warned.  
   
Sam made a face. “Honestly I’d be more worried about you breaking _his_ heart.”  
   
“Hey,” Dean said. “Whose brother are you?” Sam gave him a haughty look. Dean sobered. “Fine,” he said. “We had a—a thing just after the vampires in North Dakota. But since Cas found out about, you know.” He lowered his voice. “He’s been all mopy and shit, Sam. We’ve really just been sleeping. I’m just trying to keep the guy out of his own head.”  
   
Sam looked thoughtful. “So you’re just comforting him?” A beat. “With your body?”  
   
Dean’s eyes bulged. “I am going to strangle you,” he whispered heatedly as Castiel came down the stairs.  
   
“What’s going on?”  
   
Sam turned to Castiel, face solemn, heedless of his brother grasping at the back of his shirt, (“Don’t you dare, Sammy. Don’t you dare.”)  
   
“You have my blessing for this match,” Sam said. “Please make an honest woman out of my brother.”  
   
Castiel blinked. He looked over at Dean, who was turning a fascinating shade of puce. “Thank you?” he said.  
   
Sam pursed his lips. “Is this the part where we discuss the dowry?”  
   
“You’re both dead to me,” Dean announced, throwing his hands in the air. He stalked out of the room.  
   
“Two chickens,” said Castiel.  
   
“What?” Dean whirled around. “I am goddamn worth more than two fucking chickens.”  
   
Sam rolled his shoulders. “Three chickens and a goat.”  
   
“One chicken, one goat.”  
   
“Done.”  
   
They shook hands gravely.  
   
“If we could return to the topic at hand,” Dean said.  
   
Sam grinned. “Now about the wedding party…”  
   
“Castiel’s brother Michael called. He has some sort of offer for us,” Dean said loudly.  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “We shall have to discuss this later, Sam,” he told him. Dean definitely did not heave a sigh of relief. “My brother Michael did call.”  
   
Later, the three of them, and Bobby sat around the kitchen table. “So he says he wants to put us under some kind of protection,” Dean was saying. “From necromancers.”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel folded his hands neatly on top of the table. “He says they’re planning something. Something that involves you two, but he wouldn’t say more. I’m sorry.”  
   
Sam grimaced. “Any ideas?”  
   
“No.” Castiel leaned forward, eyes intent. “I believe him. But I also believe he is not telling the whole story.”  
   
“You don’t trust him,” Bobby commented. “Your own brother?”  
   
“I trust him not to be telling the whole story,” Castiel replied. He drooped a little, his face pensive. “I would have once. But now? No. I don’t.”  
   
Dean rotated his head side to side, cracking his neck. “Can’t really blame him,” he said. “No offense Cas, but your brother seems like a dick.”  
   
Castiel looked down at the table. Sam kicked Dean, who glared at him, then reached down to rub at his shin. “I would not blame you if you refused his offer,” Castiel said quietly.  
   
“Who said we’re refusing?” Sam leaned his elbows on the table. “Michael obviously knows something about the necromancers. If we can find out what it is, maybe we can get a better handle on this.”  
   
“Sounds like a trap to me,” Dean said, tipping the rim of his beer bottle into his mouth.  
   
“Me too, but I ain’t going,” Bobby said.  
   
“I think we should do it,” Sam said. “If we already know it’s some sort of trap—and it might not even be one—”  
   
“That is very unlikely,” said Castiel.  
   
“—then at least we know about it beforehand, and can take some precautions.”  
   
Dean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He eyed Sam skeptically. “Like what?”  
   
“I don’t know. But something.”  
   
“And here’s another thing,” Bobby put in. He aimed his next words at Castiel. “You haven’t been home in quite a while have you?”  
   
“No,” Castiel said. He thought back. “Not in years, actually. In between hunts I usually stay with Gabriel, in California.”  
   
“Well, this might be your perfect opportunity to see what your family actually knows. About your,” he waved at Castiel, “little problem.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “I’d given up on being welcome back home, and having access to the resources there.”  
   
“Now hold up,” Dean said. “That phone call didn’t exactly sound like the welcome wagon.”  
   
Castiel turned to him. “This might be my only chance to search the JI’s records, Whether or not you decide to accept Michael’s offer, as long as I’m allowed in the door…” he let the sentence trail off. “It’s a chance I must take.”  
   
Silence followed his pronouncement.  
   
Dean finished off his beer and let the bottle thunk back down onto to table. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “So where does Michael live, anyway?”  
   
“Colorado,” Castiel said, eyes glimmering with something that was beginning to resemble hope. “About an hour outside of Denver.”  
   
“Colorado?” Sam repeated. “Really?”  
   
Castiel looked uncertain. “Were you expecting somewhere else?”  
   
“Well,” Sam said, a little uncomfortably. “I was thinking maybe like, New York or, I don’t know. Boston, Chicago…” he slowed, reddening slightly. “Uh.”  
   
Dean’s eyes gleamed. “Careful there, Sammy. You know you can find Jews outside of New York.”  
   
“Shut up, Dean.” Sam turned to Castiel. “Sorry,” he offered, shamefaced.  
   
Castiel shrugged. “I’m not offended. The JI has different branches, and there is one in New York. But Michael’s compound is in Colorado.”  
   
“Wait, what do you mean when you say _compound_?” Dean put in. “Are we talking military level here?”  
   
“Hardly,” Castiel said dryly. “It’s protected against supernatural entities, naturally, by the strongest spells known to us. But it’s foremost a place of knowledge.” His eyes lost their focus for a moment. “I grew up there,” he said. “Surrounded by family, by learning. I never thought that I would leave.”  
   
“Must’ve been an interesting childhood,” Bobby said.  
   
“I don’t have anything else to compare it to.”  
   
“So.” Dean smacked the table and stood up. “Colorado.”  
   
Castiel’s eyebrows drew together. “Does this mean that you’re accepting Michael’s offer?”  
   
“Hmmm.” Dean pursed his lips. “You know what,” he decided, “Tell him that we’re considering it. Do you think he’d let us pop down for a visit?”  
   
“I would assume so,” Castiel said cautiously. He got to his feet as well. “Are you sure you want to do this, Dean?”  
   
Dean winked at him. “You need someone to get you in the door, don’t you?”  
   
Unnoticed be either of them, Sam made a gagging motion, while Bobby took a very long drink of his beer.  
   
“I don’t want you to feel as though you must put yourself in danger on my behalf.” Castiel shifted his weight from side to side, shuffling his feet. “Are you sure?”  
   
“Positive, Cas,” Dean said. He nudged at Sam’s shoulder. “Right Sammy?”  
   
Sam heaved a put upon sigh, then smiled crookedly up at Castiel. “We could use whatever information Michael has,” he said. “Don’t worry about us. We’re with you.”  
   
“I can’t help it,” said Castiel.  
   
They were on the road within the hour.  
   
 


	10. Chapter 10

The drive from Bobby’s house to the JI compound was nearly twelve hours. So about eight hours into it, Sam made an executive decision to stop.  
   
“We don’t want to go in there all tired from the drive,” he wheedled, while Dean grumbled, impatient as always to be on their way. “We should stop here for the night, and then drive the last few hours tomorrow morning.”  
   
Dean was all set to keep on going despite this, prepared to ignore Sam’s whining, but then Castiel had the gall to go and agree with him. Two against one was blatantly unfair, and Dean made sure that his brother and his—their friend, were well aware of that all the way to the next likely looking motel.  
   
“I’ll go get the room,” Sam offered, bolting from the car before it had barely finished rolling to a stop, interrupting Dean mid-rant. Dean and Castiel stared after him in surprise.  
   
“Guess he must really want to get his Casa Erotica on,” Dean said after a moment. He noticed Castiel’s disproving expression, and nudged him with his shoulder. “What, you don’t like Casa Erotica?”  
   
“Gabriel,” Castiel said, “loves Casa Erotica.” He wrinkled his nose. “And so I am morally obligated to hate it.”  
   
“Huh, Gabriel sounds like my kind of guy.”  
   
The corner of Castiel’s eye twitched. “Gabriel is an ass.”  
   
Dean blinked. “Wait, and this is your _favorite_ brother?”  
   
Castiel cocked his head. “Inias isn’t too bad,” he conceded. “Very quiet.” He scowled. “Gabriel is the opposite of quiet.”  
   
“Okay.” Dean was starting to get a little concerned. “Gabriel’s not going to be at the uh, compound is he?”  
   
“I doubt it,” Castiel said. He looked at Dean quizzically. “Why?”  
   
“Just wondering,” Dean said. He turned as Sam came back out the motel office door, the bell on top jingling. “Hey Sammy. Which one, rollaway or a pullout couch?”  
   
“Neither,” Sam said, panting. He thrust a key at Dean. “Here. You’re in 105. I’m in 208.” He went around to the back of the impala and dragged his duffle out of the trunk, while Dean stood there, stupefied.  
   
“Wait, what?” he said finally. “We’re in different rooms? Why?”  
   
“Just what they had, Dean,” Sam called over his shoulder as he began to walk away. “No big deal. See you in the morning!”  
   
“Maybe Sam really _did_ want to watch Casa Erotica,” Castiel mused. He held his own duffle loosely in his hands, his coat blowing a little in the moist spring wind.  
   
“I guess so,” Dean said doubtfully. He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we’re in this one.”  
   
They walked over to the room in question, crunching over fallen pine needles, shivering a bit in the evening chill, although the room was already fairly close to where they had parked. Dean fiddled with the key for a moment before the door opened, and he walked in, switching on the lights. Once inside however, he stopped so quickly that Castiel nearly ran into him.  
   
The room was furnished fairly to standard. There was the TV, the uncomfortable armchair in the corner, the little bedside tables, and a telephone that looked like it hadn’t been updated in the past decade. And then there was also the lone king-sized bed taking up the rest of the space.  
   
Dean stared for a moment. And then suddenly, it clicked. He groaned. “My brother,” he announced, turning to Castiel, “is also an ass.”  
   
Castiel peered around him to see just what the fuss was about.  
   
“Oh,” he said. “Well. He did sell you to me for one goat and a chicken.”  
   
“Not funny, Cas,” Dean muttered, setting his duffle on the bed. It was one thing to kind of (sort of) share a bed in Bobby’s house, where otherwise Dean would have just been on the couch anyway. It was completely different to get a goddamn motel room with one bed on purpose. “I’ll go back to the office and see if they have something else.”  
   
“Sam said they didn’t.”  
   
“Sam is a liar who thinks he’s funny. I’m gonna put Nair in his shampoo again.”  
   
But Castiel shrugged. He walked around to the other side of the bed, and put his own duffle on the armchair in the corner. “I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s only for one night.”  
   
Dean gave him a scrutinizing look. “You said you didn’t like to sleep with people.”  
   
Castiel lifted his shoulders again. “I seem to have survived the last two weeks.”  
   
“Oh ho,” Dean said triumphantly. “I’ve grown on you.”  
   
Both of Castiel’s eyebrows went up. “I wouldn’t go that far.”  
   
“Nah,” Dean said, grinning now. “I get it now. I am way too cuddly to get rid of. Admit it. You just want me for my body.”  
   
Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m unfortunately open to the idea, yes.”  
   
“See,” Dean said smugly, “This—wait, what?”  
   
But then Castiel looked away, coloring a little. “Never mind,” he said. “Sorry.”  
   
“Hey.” The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down. “Don’t be sorry, man. What’s up with you? What happened to the guy who just decides to blow me in the bathroom?”  
   
“Delicate, as always,” Castiel said, voice wry. “And nothing.” He stood. “Just tired. Should we go get dinner? I could eat something.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said. He walked around the bed to where Castiel was. “What’s been going on with you? You’ve been different these past two weeks, man. Before you would have taken my head off for saying something like that.”  
   
“I’m fine,” Castiel grit out. He squeezed between Dean and the bed, heading for the doorway. “Would you just—stop asking, all right?”  
   
Dean followed him. “Is this about going home? Seeing your brothers? It’s about your brothers, isn’t it?”  
   
“Drop it, Dean,” Castiel said, a clear warning in his tone.  
   
But now that Dean thought about it, Castiel had been acting strange even before they had heard from Michael. Which only left— “Cas, look. If this is about you being, I don’t know, freaked out about the angel thing. I told you, Bobby’s looking into it. It’s going to work out.”  
   
Castiel’s shoulders went rigid. He whirled around. “Work out?” he repeated. “Dean, I had or still might even _have_ any angel possessing me! Every time I use Enochian, my birthright. Or hell, just get angry, I might kill someone! It’s only gotten worse, Dean. Over the years, it’s only gotten worse.” He stalked back towards Dean, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “And I don’t know when I won’t be able to control it anymore. So _forgive me_ for being a little _freaked out_.”  
   
“Hey,” Dean said. He gripped Castiel’s arm. Castiel looked startled, and then angry at the contact, though he did not shy away. “I get that you’re worried man, I do. But we’re doing all we can. So you have to hold on. You can’t lose it on me right now, okay? You’ve got to have faith in me and Sammy.”  
   
Castiel breathed in sharply, nostrils flaring. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said. “But I am a monster. What if you can’t find something? Then what?”  
   
“You are not a monster, Cas. You’re nothing like those guys.”  
   
“Yes I am, Dean!” Castiel cried. He wrenched his arm free. “I can’t even bear to look at myself—what I’ve done, what I _am_. How can you even stand to touch me?”  
   
“Whoa,” Dean said, taken aback. “Hey. Hey.” He caught Castiel’s arm again, and slid his other hand up to grasp Castiel’s chin, forcing him to look at him. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “You are not a monster, Cas. Don’t ever think of yourself like that. You are brave. You are good. Hell, you do the best for everyone you meet. You wanted to lend a goddamn witch a hand.” His voice softened. “You put up with me and Sam,” he said. “Teaching him stuff to help us out. That isn’t nothing.”  
   
“Sam is not difficult to put up with,” Castiel managed to choke out.  
   
“Well, someone had to be the problem child.”  
   
Castiel swallowed. “I killed people,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I—what if I _can’t_ control it, Dean? What if _he_ comes back?” He shuddered, looking lost. “What if he doesn’t let me go?”  
   
Dean shook his head. “I won’t let that happen,” he said. “All right? I won’t let that happen to you Cas. I swear.” He tightened his grip on Castiel’s shoulder.  
   
“How can you make that promise?” Castiel whispered.  
   
“Because,” Dean said, putting as much bravado into his voice as possible. “I’m Dean fucking Winchester. If I say the angel can’t have you, then he goddamn can’t have you. All right?” At Castiel’s incredulous look, he then gentled his tone, placing his face right next to Castiel’s, murmuring into his ear, “Trust me, Cas. I won’t let it happen. Okay?”  
   
Castiel stared at him for a long moment, moisture gathered in the corners of his eyes, though he refused to let it fall. His chest heaved. Suddenly he was closing the distance between them, kissing Dean fiercely, harshly. Dean allowed it for a few moments and then pushed Castiel away, though he kept his grip on Castiel’s shoulders.  
   
“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Breathe, all right?” he cupped Castiel’s face, brushing below Castiel’s eyes with his thumbs. “It’s all right, okay? I’ve got you.”  
   
“But Dean,” Castiel said. He was wide-eyed, breathing hard with something like a mix between arousal and fear. “You can’t make promises like that, Dean. You don’t have that power.” He tried to kiss Dean again, but Dean held him fast. “Dean.” He sounded broken. Dean hated it.  
   
“Trust me, Cas,” he said. “I’ve got you, okay?” He leaned in but instead of going directly for Castiel’s lips, kissed him gently on his forehead, then his cheek. “Let me take care of you.”  
   
“I can’t,” Castiel managed to force out. “I…”  
   
“Let me,” Dean repeated. He drew Castiel towards him, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s impossibly stiff form. “Trust me.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes squeezed shut. His whole body sagged. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean echoed. “Okay. Good. Come on.” He steered Castiel to the bed and sat him down. “Lie back,” he commanded. As Castiel did so, Dean knelt and began to work at his shoes. He took off first one, then the other, then Castiel’s socks, placing them haphazardly next to the bed. That done, he stood up again and leaned over Castiel, brushing his hand along Castiel’s arm, kneading his shoulder. Castiel closed his eyes.  
   
He then went for Castiel’s shirt, stopping on the way to kiss him slowly on the mouth. He unbuttoned the shirt, then made Castiel sit up again as he pulled it off.  
   
“Arms up,” Dean said. Castiel obeyed, and Dean gripped the bottom of the undershirt, fingers dragging past Castiel’s stomach before lifting it over his head, mussing his hair. Dean looked him over, then nodded, satisfied. He reached out and fluffed Castiel’s already tussled hair.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said, a bit of his old impatience making its way back into his voice. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, nipples peaking a bit in the coolness of the room.  
   
Dean cocked his head at him. “Hey. You keep quiet. We’re doing this my way. Lay back down.” Castiel frowned, but did as Dean asked.  
   
“Dean,” he said again. “What—”  
   
Dean made a shushing sound. Castiel sighed and pressed his lips together. Content for the moment that Castiel would stay still, Dean kissed him again, tracing his hands along Castiel’s sides. Castiel resisted for a few stubborn seconds, then his lips slackened and he relaxed, letting Dean in.  
   
“Good,” Dean breathed, when they separated. “Relax. I’m going to take care of you, Cas. I promise.” At Dean’s words, Castiel tried to follow and catch his lips again. Dean pushed him back down. Castiel groaned. “Nope,” said Dean. His hands danced down past Castiel’s belly towards his jeans. He undid the button, then the zipper. Castiel made a whimpering noise in the back of his throat. “Shhh,” said Dean again. “Hips up.”  
   
Castiel lifted himself, and Dean moved to tug his jeans down, letting them pool on the ugly brown carpet next to Castiel’s shoes.  
   
“Okay,” Dean said. “Now the underwear.”  
   
“But you’re not,” Castiel protested, even as he allowed Dean to slide his underwear past his hips and down his legs. He was still mostly flaccid, but Dean was pretty sure he could fix that.  
   
“Dude,” Dean chastised. He clambered onto the bed on all fours, hovering over Castiel. “Okay, turn over.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Come on,” Dean said. “Over.” He slid his hands underneath Castiel’s sides, urging him over. Somewhat bemused now, Castel flipped onto his stomach.  
   
“Like this?” he asked, voice muffled into a pillow.  
   
“Yeah, good,” Dean answered.  
   
“Why— _oh_.” Castiel made an inarticulate noise as Dean’s hands suddenly dug into the muscles in his back. “Oh.”  
   
“Yeah _oh_ ,” Dean said, pressing his fingers just below Castiel’s shoulders. He kissed between his shoulder blades, then up towards his neck. “Told you to trust me,” he said, hot breath tickling the back of Castiel’s neck. Castiel made another noise into the pillow as Dean’s hands moved back down along his back, kneading on either side of his spine.  
   
Castiel could feel himself slowly harden with every press, the touches interspersed with Dean’s occasional kisses. Dean’s fingers brushed up and down Castiel’s back, the rough denim of his jeans a conflicting caress on his sensitive skin. Unbidden, he began to make little circles with his hips, pushing his cock into the mattress.  
   
“There,” Dean said, after a few more minutes, feeling Castiel grow more pliant with every touch. “Now turn back over.”  
   
Pouting a little at the end to the massage, Castiel eased onto his back again with Dean’s help. He was startled when Dean immediately went for his cock, which had begun to drip precum, and began to rub his fingers just below the sensitive tip. Castiel arched into it, growing harder. Dean let go, and Castiel was about to protest when he saw Dean move downward, gripping his legs just above the knees, pulling them apart. His voice died in his throat when, instead of immediately going for the main prize as it were, Dean began by placing light kisses on the insides of Castiel’s thighs. He twirled his tongue, licking strips up to _just_ below where Castiel wanted his mouth.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel managed. “Please.”  
   
At hearing Castiel’s voice, Dean grinned a little; he sounded absolutely wrecked. He considered reminding him just who was in charge right then, but decided not to waste time. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s cock lightly at the base and opened his mouth.  
   
Castiel cried out, thrusting his hips upward, fisting the blankets below him. Dean was forced to let go with his hands so that he could hold Castiel’s hips down, but kept his mouth where it was. He twirled his tongue, and Castiel moaned, letting go of his death grip on the covers in order to stuff his fist into his mouth.  
   
After a few more licks though, Dean released Castiel and moved up his body, kneeling over him, and reaching down to once again secure Castiel in a tight grip. He began jerking him off in slow, easy strokes with one hand. The other he curled around the base of Castiel’s head. He nudged Castiel’s fist out of the way and sealed their mouths together.  
   
Castiel did not like being still. He whimpered into Dean’s mouth, bringing his own hands up to the sides of Dean’s face, his hips thrusting in tight little jerks as much as he was able. Dean held him down however, kissing slowly, deeply into him, bringing him to orgasm the same way. His hand was an inexorable driving force as Castiel shuddered, thrashed under Dean’s hold, and then finally bit Dean’s lip as he crashed over into climax.  
   
His body gradually unwound itself, sagging into the covers as Dean gave one or two more tugs to his softening cock, then let go, wiping his hand on his already ruined shirt.  
   
Dean stood back, pulling his shirt off all the way, then folding it up and using it to wipe gently at Castiel, cleaning him. Castiel felt boneless, barely able to move as Dean cajoled him under the covers proper, smoothing them just below his chin.  
   
“Sleep, Cas,” he said, brushing a finger lightly across his cheek. Castiel, eyes already fluttering shut again, grabbed his wrist.  
   
“But you didn’t,” he slurred.  
   
Dean gently disentangled his wrist, placing Castiel’s hand on the bed next to his side, and patting it. “I can take care of it,” he said. “Go to sleep.”  
   
Even as he spoke, Castiel was already there.  
   
Dean watched his face for a moment, an almost fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He made his way to the bathroom, closing the door and flicking on the lights. Although he had told Castiel that he could take care of it, already he could feel himself softening. A cold shower took care of the rest. He dried himself off and returned to the main room, digging into his bag for a clean pair of boxers.  
   
And then, for the first time since they had begun their little co-sleeping experiment, Dean crawled under the covers next to Castiel. He was out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.  
   
The next morning, Sam woke them up politely by banging at the door. Dean stumbled towards it blearily, opening it with a frustrated grumble and a glare for his visitor.  
   
“Morning!” Sam said brightly. He shoved a coffee cup in Dean’s face, “Give this to Cas, would you? I don’t want to see him until after he’s had at least one cup.”  
   
“What, you didn’t bring one for me?” Dean complained, voice hoarse from sleep. He took a drink from the cup anyway, burning his tongue for the trouble.  
   
“You’re a jerk whether or not you have caffeine,” Sam retorted, rescuing the coffee. He made his way into the room, but stopped short when he spied Castiel sitting up in the bed, the covers falling off his chest. His bare, covered in more than one very obvious hickey chest, rather.  
   
Sam did an abrupt about face. “You know what?” he said. “I’ll just wait outside.” And, handing the coffee back to Dean, he beat a hasty retreat.  
   
“What was that?” Castiel yawned, scrubbing at his hair. It did nothing except make it look wilder.  
   
“Peace offering,” Dean snorted. He took another sip of the coffee, more gingerly this time, then passed it off to Castiel, who clutched at it reflexively. “Guess we should get back on the road.”  
   
“Hmm,” Castiel hummed, taking gulps of the coffee with obvious delight, oblivious to the temperature. Dean shook his head and went into the bathroom to take a leak and brush his teeth.  
   
“Dean, about yesterday,” Castiel said when he came back out, because Castiel had no sense of timing. “I, um.” He stopped, looking unsure.  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Cas. It wasn’t a chore.” He peered into his duffle, making sure to give Castiel a nice view as he bent over to pull out a clean shirt.  
   
“I was trying to say thank you,” Castiel snapped, though his voice sounded less sharp than usual. Distracted, almost. Dean snuck a glimpse. Yep, Castiel was definitely eyeing his ass. Dean smirked.  
   
“Okay,” Dean said easily. He stood and stretched, still shirtless. Castiel made a little whimpering noise. Dean turned around, hand on one hip, striking a subtle pose. It showed off the muscles in his chest and shoulders, he knew.  
   
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Castiel mumbled. He covered his face with his hand. “Dean, I am trying to—”  
   
In two quick steps, Dean strode over to Castiel and, without even a by your leave, planted a big sloppy one right on his mouth.  
   
“Cas,” he repeated, when he pulled back, grinning at Castiel’s boggled expression. “Seriously. Not a chore.”  
   
Castiel glared at him, though the effect was rather ruined by his kiss-swollen lips and somewhat glazed eyes. He brought his hand up to his lips. “I’m going to get you for that,” he said lowly.  
   
“Later,” Dean said. He pushed Castiel towards the bathroom. “We're leaving in twenty.”  
   
The rest of the drive took them off the main freeway onto a winding state highway, which eventually just became a street, stop signs every three miles and everything. Sam sat up in front consulting his map, suspiciously mum about what he may or may not have seen that morning, and Dean cranked up Communication Breakdown in order to keep it that way.  
   
Castiel stared out the window as they climbed up into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Occasional groves of trees gradually replaced forests of aspen and pine, spring leaves halfway unfurled, and the remainder bare, white sentinels. He would give Dean occasional directions like, “Keep left here,” and, “Straight for another five miles,” but otherwise didn’t speak much.  
   
Finally, Castiel told Dean to turn right onto what looked like an abandoned logging road.  
   
“You sure?” Dean asked, as the crunch of gravel sounded under the impala’s wheels. He winced at one particularly large _ding_ onto the back window.  
   
“Yes,” said Castiel.  
   
“Okay,” Dean said doubtfully.  
   
“This road isn’t even on the map.” Sam handed it to Dean, who took it with one hand, leaving the other on the steering wheel. “See?”  
   
“I know,” Castiel said. “Michael doesn’t like unexpected company.”  
   
Sam pursed his lips. “But we’re expected.” He took the map back from Dean, folding it up and shoving it into the glove compartment.  
   
“Yes. I called Michael before we left. He knows we’re coming.”  
   
“Oh goody,” Dean muttered.  
   
Castiel directed them another three miles down the road before the trees opened up just before a wide expanse of meadow. Dean immediately slowed the car at the sight that lay before him, gawking.  
   
“Holy shit,” he said. He twisted back to look at Castiel accusingly. “You didn’t say anything about a _mansion_.”  
   
“Several people live there,” Castiel said, a bit stiffly. “And others are always coming and going.”  
   
“Still,” Dean said. “Goddamn.”  
   
The _mansion_ to which Dean referred, could more aptly have been described as an estate. A wrought iron gate stood in front of the road, which continued on towards a distant, and very large, house. Behind the house, snowy peaks pierced blue sky, and a bit further beyond that, Dean spotted the gleam of a lake. The house itself was easily five stories and wide; its construction appeared to be brick, with a long flat porch at the entryway, and a spiraled tower. As Dean shifted the car into gear again, he spotted a few, smaller cottages splayed around the sides, surrounded by the slowly reanimating spring gardens.  
   
“It’s not just the house,” Castiel said quietly as they rolled under the gate. “Many of the JI’s facilities, including one of the libraries, are underneath the building.”  
   
“ _One_ of the libraries?” Sam looked back at Castiel.  
   
“Yes,” said Castiel. “There are three.”  
   
“Oh.” Sam sucked in air, obviously itching to leap out the car and get his hands on something new. Or anything, really. “What are the chances I’d get to take a look?”  
   
“No idea,” Castiel told him honestly. At Sam’s disappointed frown, he hastened to add. “Although, I have learned since my time here that sometimes it is better to ask for forgiveness, rather than permission. As long as no one explicitly forbids it…”  
   
Sam brightened as Dean stopped the car just on the side of the massive driveway.  
   
“I’m assuming I can park here?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel told him, but his attention was already on the front door, which was swinging open. Castiel got out of the car, Dean and Sam following suit, as a man stepped onto the porch, holding his hand up to his face to shield from the late morning sun. He wore a white collared shirt that looked like it had been starched, black pants, and sensible shoes. His face was pale, his eyes and hair dark.  
   
“Castiel?” said the man. “Is that really you?”  
   
Castiel tripped his way up the stairs. “Inias,” Castiel said, halting in front of him and clasping his hand. “I…yes.”  
   
“You came,” Inias murmured. “I didn’t think you would.” He gripped Castiel’s hand tightly. “It’s been a long time, brother,” he said. “I’m glad to have you home.”  
   
Castiel stared at him for a second and then pulled him into clumsy hug. Inias stiffened, but didn’t pull away, opting to pat Castiel awkwardly on the back until they broke apart.  
   
He nodded towards the Winchesters, who had come to stand at the base of the stairs. “And your companions?”  
   
“Oh,” said Castiel. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes. These are Sam and Dean Winchester. They’re Hunters, with family ties to the Men of Letters.”  
   
“Heya,” said Dean.  
   
“And this is my brother, Inias,” Castiel finished.  
   
“Welcome,” said Inias. He looked from Dean’s face to Sam’s and then back to Castiel. “Michael is expecting them?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel replied, as Inias led them into the interior of the house. His eyebrows drew together. “Michael didn’t tell you?”  
   
Inias sighed, indicating that Sam and Dean should follow them to the left, past the main stairwell. “Michael speaks very little these days,” he confided to Castiel in an undertone, though the Winchesters were able to catch it. “I’ve tried to speak to Gabriel about it but he won’t hear me. I’ve been worried, Castiel. It’s not like him.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “Strange,” he said. He glanced around, noting the echoing emptiness in the entryway. “Is Michael here?”  
   
“No,” Inias said. “He left yesterday with Zachariah. He should be back later this evening. He only told me to expect you.” As he spoke, he led them up another set of stairs, the polished wood creaking beneath his feet as Castiel and the Winchesters tromped after him. They passed another man and woman on their way up, both clutching scores of books, greeting Inias and then staring at Castiel as they moved on.  
   
Inias sighed, placing a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “They’re just…” he trailed off.  
   
“No matter,” Castiel said. He continued walking. “I’m surprised they even recognized me.”  
   
“You’re a hard man to forget,” Inias said, as they stopped in front of a door. He turned to Sam and Dean, leaving Castiel to digest his words. “This corridor is all guest rooms,” he said. “You can leave your bags here. Castiel?” Castiel blinked, returning to the present. “Your room is as it was,” he said. He grimaced. “Zachariah was all for turning it into another study, but Balthazar overruled him.”  
   
“Balthazar did?” Castiel said, surprise evident in his tone.  
   
Inias nodded. “He comes by every few months or so,” he said. “Said he preferred your room exactly the way it had been, and kicked up such a fuss if Zachariah changed anything that Zachariah’s just plain given up. He stays in there when he’s here,” he added, “so I can’t guarantee that he’s left everything in place but,” he shrugged, “I’m sure he hasn’t made too many changes.”  
   
“But he’s always hated it here,” Castiel protested. “Ever since we were children.”  
   
“Who’s Baltahzar?” Dean put in, after looking around the guestroom. He placed his bag on one of the twin beds. Sam lifted his onto the other.  
   
“A cousin,” Inias answered, after a moment.  
   
“He grew up in London,” Castiel added. “He’s always hated the country. But he came here for training for a few years, when he was a boy.” He smiled. “Hated every minute of it.”  
   
“Hated that you were better than him,” Inias said wryly. “Even though you were younger.”  
   
“That too,” Castiel agreed.  
   
Inias’ mouth twitched, then he sobered. “Listen, Castiel,” he said. “I’m running one of the teaching groups this afternoon. Will you be all right on your own?”  
   
“Of course,” Castiel said, after a second’s glance at Sam and Dean.  
   
Inias still looked unsure, but he inclined his head. “Dinner is at seven, like always,” he said. “Michael will be back by then. Other than that, well.” He tilted his head in a way so reminiscent of Castiel that Dean was startled. “You know your way around.”  
   
“I do,” Castiel said. “Thanks, Inias.”  
   
With one last nod, Inias left back down the corridor.  
   
Sam exhaled. “He seemed…nice,” he said, sitting on one of the beds. “Glad to see you again.”  
   
“Inias has always been that way,” Castiel said. “He’s very gentle-hearted.” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes a little too much so, I think.”  
   
“Does everything Michael tells him to, huh?” Dean said. He turned away from the big bay window.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. “Although to be fair, so did I, up until a point. Inias just…never had occasion to say no, I suppose.”  
   
“Well,” Dean said lightly. “There’s still time.” He pointed his thumb towards the window. “Can we look around? Or will that get us politely corralled back here?”  
   
“They might notice, but it shouldn’t matter. Not as long as I’m with you, anyway. They all know who I am.”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam said. “I noticed that.” He got up from the bed, tugging down at his shirt. “Who were those guys we saw in the stairway? Did you grow up with them?”  
   
“Well Sammy,” Dean drawled. “Recall that our Cas here was a bit of a _prodigy_. He’s practically famous.”  
   
Sam cocked his head at Castiel. “Were you really that good?”  
   
“They were some of my more distant cousins,” Castiel said, not answering the other question. “But no. We didn’t grow up together.”  
   
“Dude,” said Dean. “How many cousins do you _have_?”  
   
“A lot,” said Castiel. He held the door open, indicating for Sam and Dean to go first.  
   
“Yeah, I can see that.”  
   
“They’re not all first cousins,” Castiel said, as they began to descend down the stairs. “There are different degrees of separation. Zachariah is a second cousin, for example. To be honest, I’m not even sure how Balthazar and I are related.” He halted as a woman rounded the corner, nearly knocking him over and losing her grip on the stack of papers she held.  
   
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman, looking down as she caught a folder from falling.  
   
“It is no problem,” said Castiel.  
   
At his voice, the woman’s head shot up. “Castiel?” she said, incredulous. “Is that you?”  
   
Castiel’s throat tightened in recognition. “Hello, Hester,” he said.  
   
Hester’s eyes widened. “Castiel,” she repeated. “When—when did you get here?”  
   
“Today.”  
   
“Hello,” Dean said brightly, stepping past Castiel. “I’m Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam.” He dragged Sam next to him, effectively shielding Castiel. “We’re visitors.”  
   
“Hello,” said Hester after a brief pause, looking a bit nonplussed. “I’m Hester.”  
   
“You must be one of Castiel’s cousins,” said Sam, going for his patented, warm and fuzzies voice. “It’s nice to meet you.”  
   
“Uh,” said Hester. She hesitantly shook Sam’s hand, clutching her folders to her chest. “Nice to meet you.” She then stepped back, trying without success to peer around Dean’s shoulders and wide smile, to catch Castiel’s eye. “I suppose I will see you later, Castiel.”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel uttered, the word seeming to be dragged from his throat without consent. He took a quick breath. “Later. I apologize, Hester. We really must continue on, now.”  
   
Hester nodded. She gathered her papers more firmly to herself and then continued down the hallway. Castiel exhaled, slumping against the wood paneling when she had disappeared.  
   
“If you don’t mind,” he said quietly. “I would like to begin our explorations outside. Where there are fewer chances of, um…”  
   
“Encounters?” suggested Sam. He glanced at Dean. “Sure, that’s fine.”  
   
“Thank you,” Castiel said, relief evident in his voice as he straightened his posture. He glanced up and down the hallway and then began to lead them in a different direction, towards the back of the house this time. “I’m sorry. I find that I’m not quite ready to face all of my family at once.”  
   
“I really can’t blame you,” said Dean. They reached a side door and Castiel pushed it open, making his way out into the gardens.  
   
“This is the herb garden,” he said, after peering around for a moment to reorient himself. “Come this way.” He set off away from the road they had driven in on, towards the lake Dean had spied earlier. Sam and Dean glanced at each other and with a mutual shrug, trotted after him.  
   
They were moving at a good pace, Castiel walking fairly quickly out in front, when he slowed and stopped, something clearly having caught his eye. Dean and Sam caught up to him and turned to look as well.  
   
Castiel had been staring at one of the small gardens. It was a rose garden, though of course none of the flowers were in bloom. Branches curled up iron trellises, which laced together at the top to form a sort of bower. The whole structure was set around a flat, rounded stone center, with a large granite table set in the middle.  
   
“There’s a lot of iron in this garden,” Dean murmured to Sam, who nodded in fervent agreement.  
   
“This used to be my favorite place as a child,” Castiel said, almost to himself. He then looked at Sam and Dean. “I stopped coming here after I got sick. I never could articulate why.” He nodded to the garden and began to walk again, slower this time, giving the circle a wide berth. “Until now, that is. Now I find it is full of rather unpleasant memories.”  
   
Dean pondered that but Sam, quick as always, caught on to his meaning. “This is where you and Adriel…”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. He shuddered as he looked at the granite table. “We wrote our names,” he said. “There. On that table.”  
   
Dean made a face, and then realizing something, glanced up towards the house. “That’s really close to the house,” he said, and pointed. “There are windows right there. Why would he do something like that right where he could get caught?”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “I don’t believe he thought he was doing anything wrong,” he said. “It wasn’t uncommon to work Enochian in the gardens. Especially on a warm spring day.” He turned, and commenced walking again, leading them further away from the house. “Come on. I’ll show you the lake.”  
   
Dean grabbed Sam’s sleeve as Sam began to follow. “Do you believe that?” he muttered.  
   
“Not for a minute,” Sam whispered back. “You don’t anchor blood spells with a twelve year old. Adriel had to know that what he was doing was wrong.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I sure the hell think so.” He released Sam as Castiel twisted his head to see where they were, shading his eyes from the sun.  
   
“Dean?”  
   
“We’re coming!” Dean called. He glanced at Sam again, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “We have to get a closer look at that garden.”  
   
Sam nodded.  
   
As it transpired however, they did not get the chance. First, Castiel took them down to the lake. They gazed their fill at the clear mountain water, Castiel explaining that he was often sent here by their tutors to track down Balthazar. Then he told them, looking at little shamefaced, that half the time he ended up staying himself anyway, on account of Balthazar’s gifted persuasion.  
   
“And then Uriel would be sent after the both of us,” he sighed. He leaned against the dock. “It’s nice in the summer. I was never patient enough for fishing, but Inias and Anna liked to catch trout here.”  
   
“Anna’s your sister, right?” Dean knelt down and dipped an experimental hand into the water. He withdrew it immediately, wincing. “Damn, that’s cold,” he said, getting back to his feet. He shook his hand out, then wiped it on his shirt. “Is she here?”  
   
“It’s snow melt,” Castiel said. “And no. She’s in London. Ostensibly working with Balthazar, but from what Gabriel’s told me, she speaks to Michael about as often as I do.”  
   
“Huh,” said Dean. “So Inias is really the only one who stayed at home?”  
   
Castiel inclined his head in response to Dean’s question, but his eyes were far away.  
   
“It’s uh, really nice, Cas,” Sam said. He looked back towards the house, spotting some buildings behind the main one. “What are those?”  
   
“Cottages,” Castiel answered, seeing where he was pointing. “Sometimes when members of the JI come here for research or training, they bring their whole families. If they want a little more privacy, they stay in those.” He squinted. “The smaller ones are garden houses,” he added. “And there.” He pointed towards a little building straddled across one of the streams feeding into the lake. “The generator is over there.”  
   
“Totally off the grid, then?” Dean asked.  
   
“Of course,” Castiel replied. “It would be very difficult to get power up here otherwise.”  
   
After that, he took them through the rest of the gardens, explaining which ones were for harvesting materials, and which ones were for pleasure. As the sun set, they moved back into the house, though Dean noticed that Castiel kept well away from what he obviously knew to be the more populated areas. There were still one or two more awkward encounters, and another one less awkward than it was sad.  
   
“That’s Samandriel,” Castiel told Sam and Dean, after nearly being bowled over by a rambunctious, chubby-cheeked child. Dean had simply spun the boy around and sent him on his way. “Inias’ son. He was much…smaller, when I saw him last.” He looked down at the floor, then up again. “Inias sends photographs to Gabriel sometimes, but it’s not really the same.”  
   
The boy had not looked at Castiel with any recognition, likely assuming that they were visitors just like any other. Dean reached out and touched the back of Castiel’s hand in solidarity. Castiel gave him a flicker of a smile as they reached the guest corridor.  
   
“Inias said that dinner is at seven.” Castiel cleared his throat. “That’s in less than an hour. I would like to change my clothes, and then I will come back for you.”  
   
“Sure, Cas,” Dean said, which Sam echoed.  
   
True to his word, Castiel returned shaven, bathed, and wearing much nicer clothes than Dean had seen him in, in a while. He had even attempted to comb his hair, Dean noticed.  
   
In that time also, Sam had changed his shirt, while Dean had taken a nap.  
   
“Are you ready?” Castiel asked. He stood by the door, one hand propping it open, the other dangling at his side. He looked good, Dean decided, but stiff. Nervous even, if that tick in his jaw was anything to go by.  
   
Dean gave him a friendly bump with his shoulder and a wink as he passed through the doorway. “Sure,” he said. He shoved his hands deep into his back pockets. “Lead the way.”  
   
With a nod, Castiel guided them through the corridor again, then down the stairs onto the main floor. He crossed the entranceway, focusing resolutely forward, ignoring anyone who happened to stop and stare. News traveled quickly, it seemed. Dean made sure to give a cheerfully pointed smile and wave at anyone who looked their way for more than a few seconds.  
   
Eventually, Castiel slowed in front of a pair of oak doors. He stopped for a moment, straightening his back, tugging at his shirt and his tie.  Then he took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and pushed the doors open. He strode inside, Sam and Dean following at his heels.  
   
The inside of the room was the same paneled wood as the rest of the house. A long table stretched in the center, covered in a white tablecloth, with eight place settings. Dean felt a twinge of nervousness at the lack of real windows, although there was a geometric stained glass one at the far end of the room. Its muted blues and greens cast faint patters on the white of the tablecloth.  
   
Three men rose from their chairs to greet them as they entered. Dean recognized Inias on one side of the head of the table, but not the other two. The one in the middle was tall and lean, like Inias, and the third, sitting next to the middle man’s right, was older and paunchier, with graying hair and noticeable jowls. Dean stepped carefully around the table next to Castiel, resolutely not turning around as the door closed shut behind them.  
   
“Welcome home, Castiel,” said the man at the head of the table. He was older than Inias, though younger than the other, perhaps in his early forties. There were a few flecks of white in his dark hair. “I apologize that I wasn’t here to greet you this morning.” He eyed Sam and Dean. “And you must be Sam and Dean Winchester. Welcome.”  
   
Castiel stared straight ahead. “Hello, Michael,” he said. His gaze flickered to the older man on Michael’s right, who looked thoroughly unimpressed with the entire procedure. “Zachariah.”  
   
“Castiel,” Zachariah returned. “Glad to see you back with us.” He smiled. Dean didn’t even need to squint to tell that it was a lie. Castiel obviously didn’t need to either, if the way his jaw tightened further was any indication.  
   
Castiel nodded then to Inias, his expression softening the slightest bit. “Hello, Inias,” he said. “Samandriel looks well.”  
   
Inias’ whole face lit up. “Did you see him?” he said. “The spitting image of his mother, isn’t he?”  
   
“He is,” Castiel said gently.  
   
“An unholy terror, if you ask me,” Zachariah put in. He smiled again, like a shark. “But boys will be boys won’t they, Castiel?”  
   
Castiel twitched. “He seemed a pleasant enough child.”  
   
“I suppose he didn’t recognize you,” Inias said haltingly, after a sideways look at Zachariah. “It’s been so long…”  
   
“Yes,” Michael said. “It really has. Please, Castiel. Sit down.”  
   
Castiel hesitated and then pulled out a chair. He sat next to Inias. Dean sat next to him, not wanting to get stuck next to Zachariah. Sam glowered a little, then reluctantly moved around the table to sit next to Castiel’s cousin. Dean frowned minutely, noticing that there were still two empty place settings.  
   
“Are you expecting other guests?” Castiel said, clearly noticing as well.  
   
Michael nodded. “Yes, I apologize. Business associates. They’re late, however.” He leaned toward Castiel, who almost subconsciously edged away in response. Dean placed what he hoped was a subtle hand on Castiel’s thigh to steady him. Castiel straightened.  
   
“I see,” he said.  
   
“So tell me, Castiel,” said Zachariah. “What exactly have you been doing these past five years?” He took a drink of water. “You haven’t just been staying with Gabriel, I imagine?”  
   
“No,” said Castiel. “I have not been.” He did not elaborate further.  
   
“Gabriel tells me you have been hunting,” Michael said. His voice was quiet, measured.  
   
Castiel hesitated, then inclined his head. “Yes.”  
   
“Oh I see,” Zachariah said. “Hunting.” He eyed Sam and Dean. “Is that how you three met?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes narrowed. As essentially Michael’s second in command, Zachariah was likely well aware of how he had met the Winchesters. And Michael probably knew exactly what he had been doing. So why were they pretending otherwise?  
   
“Uh, yeah,” said Sam, into the suddenly awkward pause. “We were all after the same ghost, actually.”  
   
The door swung open and Dean tensed at the sound, but all it was, was a man who was clearly a server. He trotted into the room holding a bottle of wine and, after Michael had inspected it, twisted it open and began to pour them each a glass. He set the wine bottle in the center of the table and then left the room wordlessly.  
   
“Please.” Michael indicated to Sam and Dean. “Feel free to drink. The food should be ready shortly.”  
   
“Uh, thanks,” Dean said. He lifted his glass and took a sip. It was a little sweeter than he was used to, and he quickly swallowed and put it back down again. “So,” he said, figuring that they might as well get straight down to business. “Cas here said you had some kind of deal to offer us?”  
   
“Indeed,” Michael said. “Would you like to discuss this now?”  
   
“Since we’re all here, why not?” Dean said. He was aware he sounded flippant, but the souring expression on Zachariah’s face was definitely worth it. “Something about…uh, necromancers?”  
   
Michael raised an eyebrow. “You could say that,” he said coolly. He directed his next words at Castiel. “The Thule,” he said. “Have taken an interest of late.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes widened. Next to him, Inias stilled. Zachariah did not react, so Dean figured he must have already known. “The Thule?” Castiel repeated. “Are you sure?”  
   
“Oh yes,” Zachariah said. “In fact, I talked to one not three days ago who had quite a bit to tell me.”  
   
Castiel turned a bit green at that, and Dean decided that he didn’t want to know what Zachariah meant when he said, ‘talked to.’  
   
Sam put down his glass. “Who are the Thule?”  
   
“Necromancers,” said Castiel. His breath came more quickly than usual. “The Thule Society was one of the main founders of the Nazi Party. Since they lost the war, they’ve been gathering strength. Hiding in the shadows. We—”  
   
“Castiel,” said Michael.  
   
Castiel opened his mouth a little, but then glanced away, falling silent.  
   
Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “Well what on earth do they want with us?”  
   
At that moment, the door opened again. Dean, hungry and ready for dinner at this point, perked up, looking over his shoulder. But what he saw immediately made his stomach plummet.  
   
“That’s a good question, Sam,” said Leo Ganem. He strode in, nodding to Michael, and took a seat next to Sam, who recoiled.  
   
“What are _you_ doing here?” Dean demanded. He pushed back his chair, ready to stand up. Next to him, Castiel tensed.  
   
“My business associate,” Michael said, giving a casual wave towards Leo, face impassive. “Welcome, Leo. Just you today?”  
   
“Just me,” Leo confirmed. His gaze swept over Dean. “We’re here about the Thule, Dean,” he said. “Same as you.”  
   
“He is our ally in this,” Michael said, voice measured. He spoke to Castiel. “I would have thought you would be pleased to see us working together,” he said. “Given your friendship with his former students.”  
   
Castiel’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.  
   
“ _Former_ students,” Sam put in.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Kind of an important detail there.” He directed his next words towards Leo. “We left for a reason.”  
   
Leo tilted his head. “We all want to get rid of the Thule,” he said, reaching over to pour himself a glass of wine. “That necessity overrides everything.”  
   
“Now listen to me, you self-righteous ass,” Dean began, not caring for a minute that he was a guest in Michael’s house. “I told you we’re not interested. And that includes being part of any deal you're in.” He thought for moment, then added, “And being in the same fucking room as you.”  
   
“You see what I have to deal with?” Leo complained to Michael. He picked up his fork and plucked at it. “Honestly. Who would you have thought took them in as orphans?”  
   
“Bobby did most of the heavy lifting,” Sam said, voice mild, the rest of him anything but. He remained seated, though his body was practically vibrating with fury. His hands gripped the armrests on his chair, his knuckles white.  
   
“I don’t know what you’re planning, but we are _not_ going to fucking go along with it!” Dean snapped, standing and leaning over the table. He thumbed at Leo. “If he’s part of the deal, then we’re out,” Dean said to Michael.  
   
Castiel finally spoke. “Michael,” he said, his tone a deceptive calm, though Dean could hear the tremor underneath it. “What is the meaning of this?”  
   
“I must thank you for bringing the Winchesters, Castiel.” Michael folded his hands atop the table, sounding about as emotional about the whole thing as a wall. “That was part of our working agreement with the Men of Letters. I believe however, that Mr. Ganem can take it from here.”  
   
Sam stood up. “What do you mean?”  
   
“Indeed I can,” Leo said. He clapped his hands once, and a piece of the tablecloth unwound from the edges. It fluttered into the air before splitting neatly in two, each half wrapping around the Winchester brothers, locking them in place.  
   
“Goddamn you Leo,” Dean snarled. He tried to tear at the makeshift rope, but only found himself further secured  
   
“Now to be fair,” Leo said. “I didn’t make you come here.” He raised his eyebrows at Castiel who slowly rose, shaking.  
   
Dean twisted in his bonds to look over at Castiel.  
   
“Cas?”  
   
Castiel turned to him, eyes wide. “Dean, I didn’t know,” he said frantically. “I swear, I didn’t know. I’m sorry—”  
   
“Be quiet, Castiel,” Zachariah said. He flicked his wrist, said something in Enochian, and suddenly Castiel was slammed back into his chair. “Leo, I do hope you’re going to replace that tablecloth.”  
   
“Of course,” Leo said. He motioned at Sam and Dean, and the two jerked forward like marionettes. “Coming, gentlemen?”  
   
Castiel made a noise of frustration, trying to break from whatever hold Zachariah had on him, but it was useless.  
   
“Oh no,” said Zachariah. “You get to stay here with us. We have a lot to talk about.”  
   
Castiel rotated to look furiously at his brothers. “Michael!” he pleaded. And then more desperately, “Inias!”  
   
“I’m sorry, Castiel,” Inias whispered, looking helplessly at Michael. “I didn’t know—”  
   
Castiel stopped listening. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. His brothers wouldn’t hear him. Fine. Then there was only one way out of this. So be it.  
   
He focused on that familiar heat in his belly, his fear already making it boil and roll, already easier to reach. He prepared to draw it out, white heat flashing against the inside of his eyelids—  
   
“No, Cas!” Dean shouted. Startled, Castiel opened his eyes, Enochian on the tip of his tongue, but unspoken. Dean was nearly to the door, fighting every step of the way as Leo Ganem, looking irritated, pulled them along. But now Dean that saw that he had Castiel’s attention, he fought harder. “Don’t do it, Cas,” he grit out, seeing Castiel’s focus zoom in on him. “Don’t do it for this.”  
   
Castiel’s chest tightened. “But Dean, I—”  
   
“Cas, _please_.” Dean locked eyes with him. “Please,” he said again.  
   
Castiel stared at him for one searching, desperate moment. And then his shoulders slumped. He bowed his head, exhaling, and let the white heat fade away.    
   
Dean nodded, flashing one last, strained, devil-may-care smile before Leo Ganem dragged him and his brother away.    
   
   
 


	11. Chapter 11

After the door slammed shut behind Leo Ganem, Castiel turned to glare at Michael, fury sharpening his tone. “What is going on?”  
   
Michael lifted his wineglass, swirling the liquid within. He took a sip and set it back down again. “The Thule aren’t just planning, Castiel,” he said. “They’re moving. The Men of Letters are the only ones who can stop them and they _need_ the Winchesters to do it.”  
   
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Castiel growled. He strained against Zachariah’s bonds again, but it was useless. His physical strength was no match for Zachariah’s Enochian. “If the Winchesters were needed so desperately, Sam and Dean would have gone willingly—why did you have them taken?”  
   
“They’ve already refused initiation into the Men of Letters,” Michael said. “Time is running out. With what the Thule are planning, we cannot afford to take any chances.”  
   
“Don’t be so ornery, Castiel,” Zachariah said. “When it’s all over, you’ll see them again.”  
   
“I highly doubt that,” Castiel spat. Zachariah’s smile did not waver.  
   
“Brother,” Inias said quietly, “why didn’t you speak to me about this?”  
   
“It was on a strictly need-to-know basis,” Michael said, turning to him. “I’m sorry. I couldn't tell you. The negotiations were too delicate.”  
   
Inias cast a glance at Castiel, who scowled back at him. “And Castiel?” he said, voice small. “Why must he be bound?”  
   
“Because your brother is infatuated with the damn Winchesters,” Zachariah put in. “Didn’t you see his face when Leo took them?” He shook his head, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. “Face it, kiddo,” he said to Inias. “Your brother is no different than he was when he left.”  
   
“I was taken advantage of,” Castiel bit out. “Inias, you know—”  
   
“You were an imbecile,” Zachariah interrupted. “Infatuated, just like now. And look where that’s gotten you.”  
   
“Enough,” Michael said. “Inias. I need you to make your rounds. The Thule will be here soon enough. We must be prepared to face them. Zachariah.”  
   
Zachariah sighed. “Yes?”  
   
“Take Castiel to his room.” Castiel’s eyes widened in affront, as Michael continued, “He cannot be trusted to act in our best interest right now.”  
   
“Wait!” Castiel said, as all three of them prepared to stand. “Will you at least tell me what you think the Thule are planning? Will you at least give me that? Why are you so certain that they are coming here?”  
   
Zachariah snorted, but Michael put what Castiel supposed was meant to be a comforting hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. “The Thule will attempt to open a gate,” he said. “On holy land. If they succeed, the Winchesters must close it.”  
   
Castiel shook his head, staring up at Michael. “I don’t understand.”  
   
“You don’t need to understand, Castiel,” said Zachariah, exasperated. “Your part in this is over. All you need to do is stay put.” He made sure to enunciate the last two words. “Got it?”  
   
Castiel gnashed his teeth together, but did not give Zachariah the pleasure of an answer.  
   
“Excellent,” Zachariah said. “Let’s go then, shall we?”  
   
“Inias,” Michael said, when Inias did not move. “The defenses.”  
   
“I…” Inias looked at Castiel again, then away. “Yes, Michael. Of course. When do you want them implemented?”  
   
“Begin the preparations tonight,” Michael said. “The equinox is tomorrow and they must come here.” He pursed his lips. “In force, I’d imagine.”  
   
“But how do you know?” Castiel burst out, unable to keep still. “The Thule Society has been scattered for over fifty years—”  
   
“I know,” Michael snapped. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat in surprise. Michael so rarely raised his voice. Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his outward exterior visibly calming. “I know what they are planning, Castiel,” Michael said, this time more quietly. “They have a new leader; he has been consolidating his power. And now he is coming here.”  
   
Castiel bowed his head. “But if the situation is so dire, why did you have the Men of Letters take the Winchesters?” he said, voice barely a whisper. He looked up. “We could all have fought together, Michael. Why this?”  
   
Michael’s gaze caught and held his, his eyes like steel. “Because it was necessary,” he said. “I will not allow the Thule to go through with their plan. And I will never allow _you_ to fall into their hands.”  
   
Castiel’s heartbeat sped up. “What do you mean?”  
   
But Michael turned away. “Take my little brother upstairs, Zachariah,” he ordered. “And make absolutely sure that he is secure.”  
   
“Of course,” Zachariah said. He raised his eyebrows at Castiel, looking for a disturbing moment like the doting uncle who had been tasked with putting the disobedient child to bed. “Come on, Castiel.” He gestured, and Castiel felt himself being pulled to his feet as if by the strings on a puppet.  
   
“Inias,” Michael commanded, after seeing that Castiel was taken care of. “With me.” He swept out of the room. Inias, after one last apologetic look towards Castiel, followed.  
   
After Michael and Inias had taken their leave, Zachariah took him upstairs to the third floor. Despite his long absence, and the circumstances surrounding his return, Castiel was momentarily struck by how familiar it all was. He had walked these corridors as a boy, had played here. Had never thought he would leave.  
   
“In here,” Zachariah said. He pushed open the door to Castiel’s childhood bedroom and Castiel stumbled inside, sitting down next to the duffle he had brought in only that day. “Stay. Put.” Zachariah said. He gave a smile to Castiel that looked more like a grimace and turned to go.  
   
“Zachariah.”  
   
Zachariah looked back. “Yes?”  
   
“The rumors,” Castiel said. “Why did you do it?”  
   
This time, Zachariah did smile. “Because, kiddo,” he said. “We needed you alone.”  
   
And, shaking his head at Castiel’s dumbfounded expression, Zachariah left. Despite now feeling his arms and legs free to move, Castiel sat stock still on the bed.  
   
_We needed you alone_.  
   
And it was true, Castiel thought. Despite being in his childhood home, surrounded by family, he had never felt more isolated.  
   
When he had gathered himself again, Castiel tried the door, and the window, of course. He even attempted the measliest of Enochian spells, but just the thought of it now made him nauseous and gave him a pounding headache.   
   
With nothing else to do but wait, Castiel’s gaze swept over his bedroom. It hadn’t changed much, despite the fact that Balthazar apparently stayed here during his visits. There were two bookshelves on the opposite wall, with an embossed copy of the _Tanahk_ , which he had received for his thirteenth birthday sitting proudly on top, alongside a small collection of pebbles he had taken from the lake. There was a soccer ball in the corner and one of Inias’ old fishing poles leaning against the closet door. The blue comforter on his bed was even the same, though it felt like Balthazar might have upgraded the mattress.  
   
There were a few trophies piled haphazardly onto the shelf nailed above Castiel’s bed. Castiel took one of them, a soccer trophy by the looks of it. He examined it for a moment, the sight of the gilded plastic sweeping him with memories of green fields, juice snacks that Michael disproved of, and arguments with Balthazar regarding what the proper name of the sport actually was. Castiel clenched the trophy tightly in his fist, feeling the bite of the ridged plastic into his palm. Then in one smooth motion, he hefted it in one hand and threw it as hard as he could against the window.  
   
The trophy smacked into the glass but rather than smashing it, or even cracking it, it simply dropped harmlessly to the floor; whatever spell Zachariah had put around his room to keep him contained was apparently very, very thorough. Castiel grabbed another trophy but instead of aiming it at the window (clearly a useless endeavor) flung this one at the mirror. The mirror, not being protected by Zachariah’s spell, cracked. Castiel reached for the third (and last) trophy, and launched it as hard as he could. The mirror shattered.  
   
Breathing harshly, Castiel dropped back down onto the bed, putting his head between his knees, rocking a little side to side. Eventually, he lay down, staring blankly at the wall until he fell off into an exhausted, angry sleep.  
   
But he didn’t sleep for long.  
   
His years of hunting had made him a light sleeper and so when the door to his room swung open, Castiel’s eyes snapped open as well. The hallway beyond was dark, but Castiel could see a figure standing upright in the gloom. Whoever it was, was much too tall and thin to be Zachariah.  
   
“Michael?” said Castiel, hesitantly. At his words, the figure moved out of the gloom, into the light cast by the lamp next to Castiel’s bed. He lifted his head, and now his features were clear for Castiel to see.  
   
Castiel’s mouth opened in shock, but no sound came out.  
   
“Hello, brother,” said Adriel. He moved into the room to stand directly in front of Castiel, who sat stock still, stunned into immobility. Adriel placed one long index finger on Castiel’s forehead. “Sleep,” he murmured.  
   
And all Castiel knew was darkness.  
   
   
                                                                           ~      *     ~  
   
   
Defying Dean’s expectations, they were not taken to some sort of armored vehicle, to be shipped back to Men of Letters Headquarters like dogs to the pound. Rather, once outside the main entryway, Leo led them away from the road, towards the gardens. His intentions became clear when they stopped in front of one of the cottages Castiel had pointed out earlier that day. He knocked three times, paused, rapped twice, waited, and then knocked three times more. The door was wrenched open.  
   
“Leo,” said the man who opened it. “You have them?”  
   
“Yes, of course,” Leo said. He snapped his fingers, and Sam and Dean were marched inside.  
   
“Clive?” Sam gasped, as the light revealed a familiar balding head.  
   
“Sorry, Sam,” Clive Dillon Jr. said. He shut the door behind them. “Desperate times.”  
   
“Well, now I really know how Castiel feels,” said Dean, upper lip pulled back in a sneer. “You’re all in on this, aren’t you?” He looked around the room, seeing familiar faces, young and old. “What the _hell_ is going on?”  
   
“You don’t need initiates this badly,” Sam said, gritting his teeth as he and Dean were dumped without ceremony into the center of the room. He looked up at Leo, then Clive. “What do you want with us?”  
   
“We have a job for you,” said Leo.  
   
“A job,” repeated Dean in disbelief. He and Sam shared a glance. “I’m sorry Leo, I don’t think you can afford us.” Dean made an apologetic face. “See, we have this additional fee for _assholes_ that’s probably out of your range.”  
   
Leo backhanded him. “Now listen here, you insolent child,” he said harshly, while Dean’s ears rang. He crouched down to their level. “I’m going to tell you a story about this place,” he said. “Then you will see what I mean by job. And,” he raised his voice. “And,” he repeated, “You will see exactly what will happen if you refuse.”  
   
Dean worked his jaw. “Wonderful,” he said, the words pure acid. “Story time.”  
   
Leo’s nostrils flared. “Once upon a time,” he said. “Back in 1958. Before the JI had their headquarters here. A witch stumbled upon this spot.” He wet his lips, seeing that he now had their unwilling attention. “The witch noticed immediately of course that this area was holy land and, being _holy land_ , saw that there was therefore a very thin barrier here.” At Dean’s puzzled frown, he rolled his eyes. “That is, a thin barrier between this world and the next,” he said. “Honestly Dean, did you pay _any_ attention while you were with us?”  
   
Dean fluttered his eyelashes. “Not really,” he said, enjoying the way Leo’s mouth pursed in obvious irritation.  
   
“Why was it holy?” Sam bit out.  
   
Leo spread his hands, standing straight again. “Our allies have some notion that an angel fell here once, or something to that effect. I think it’s complete bunk, but that’s how they are.”  
   
“Oh,” said Dean. “I’d trust them on that one.”  
   
Clive barked out a laugh. “What, you believe in angels now, son?”  
   
Dean cocked his head, smiling thinly. “I might.”  
   
“You’ve been spending too much time with Castiel.” Leo moved in front of him again. “Regardless,” he said, “the barrier here is thin. And that witch—he knew he could crack it with just the right kind of pressure.”  
   
“And what,” said Sam, voice measured, “kind of pressure was that?”  
   
Leo gave him a long stare. “An atrocity,” he said. He began to pace, ticking off with his fingers. “There were several that fit the bill of course. Patricide.” He then glanced from one brother to the other, “Fratricide.” He studied his hands for a moment, then exhaled. “This particular witch apparently had a sense of irony however, and proceeded to go with the most biblical of them all.”  
   
Dean leaned forward, curious despite himself. “Which was?”  
   
“The witch took his son,” Leo said. “His favored son. The son he loved above all others. The witch took his son up the mountain and laid him down upon the rock.” He knelt back down again, nearly face to face with Dean as he said with a voice as hard as iron, “And then he slit the boy’s throat.” Dean’s eyes widened in horror, as Leo stood up again. “Very Old Testament, wouldn’t you say?”  
   
Finally, Sam managed to speak.  
   
“And did it work? Did the—did the gate open?”  
   
“Oh yes,” Leo said. He crossed his arms. “However, we had been chasing the witch for some time. Coincidentally, so had the JI. We had even been working together for a while. The witch was also a known necromancer, and the JI tend to hold a grudge against that sort of behavior.” He shrugged. “Can’t really blame them.” He looked towards the window, then back at the Winchesters. “Regardless, our team caught up to the witch. Too late for the boy, unfortunately, and the gate had already been opened. They managed to close it, and killed the witch.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not bad, right?”  
   
Sam frowned. “Why are you telling us this?”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. He fixed Leo with a challenging look. “Get to the point. You still haven’t said a damn word about what the hell this has to do with us.”  
   
Leo began to pace. “Henry Winchester was among the team that caught him,” he told them, watching closely as Sam and Dean froze at the name. Leo nodded. “Yes. And in fact, he was the one who ultimately closed the gate.” He smiled, a little sadly. “Your grandfather really was a hero.”  
   
Sam’s eyes fluttered closed. “You said this happened in 1958.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Our grandfather died in 1958.”  
   
Dean lifted his chin. “Is that what killed him? Some witch, opening a, a door to Narnia or whatever? Is that what you’re telling us?”  
   
Leo stalked forward, grabbing Dean by the front of his shirt. “Why do you think such an atrocity was required?” Leo demanded. “Think, boys. Only the blood that opened the gate would be able to close the gate. The witch killed his son and so the blood that opened it was the blood that could close it. Only the blood of the witch’s family. His own. When Henry Winchester fought the witch, his blood was shed on the stone. It joined the boy’s and the stone accepted it. Henry Winchester gained the power to shut the gate and he did so at the cost of his own life.” He put his face up next to the Winchesters. “The stone does not forget,” he said. “It accepted Henry Winchester’s blood and so if the gate is opened again it will accept yours. Do you understand?”  
   
Dean’s eyes blazed. “This is a suicide mission,” he spat.  
   
“No,” Leo said, standing back. “It is a sacrifice for the greater good.”  
   
“We’re not going to do it,” Sam said.  
   
“Sam,” Leo said. “If you don’t do this, the Thule will open the gate. They will become more powerful than you can imagine. And the world will end in fire.”  
   
“I don’t know,” said Dean. “I think I’d take my chances with the Thule, given that you’re representing what’s supposed to be the good guys.” He twisted to look at Sam. “Don’t you think, Sammy?”  
   
“Sounds about right to me, Dean,” said Sam  
   
Leo exhaled, his eyes going flinty. “You know if you had just cooperated months ago none of this would have been necessary.”  
   
“Oh yeah,” Dean said. “No, I get it. Instead of kidnapping us in order to have us kill ourselves, you would have just _brainwashed_ us into doing it.” His voice took on a mocking cast. “Yeah, so much better, Leo old buddy. You regretting your life choices too, Sammy?”  
   
“Always,” growled Sam.  
   
Leo scowled. “If I didn’t have proof I would never believe you to be Henry Winchester’s grandsons.”  
   
“Or maybe,” said Sam, “this isn’t what he would have wanted!”  
   
Leo snorted. “Henry Winchester was a Man of Letters,” he said firmly. “He did what was necessary for the greater good.” He loomed over them. “And you will too.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Leo snapped his fingers and he and Sam were dragged unwillingly upright once more.  
   
“I’m sorry,” said Leo. “The accommodations here are a bit sparse, but we will give you the time you need to decide who will be responsible for closing the gate.” He nodded to one of the others, and a door was opened down the hallway. “The Thule will be here tomorrow,” said Leo. “Their leader has already accumulated great power. The JI will not be able to stand against him for long. You will be needed.”  
   
And with that pronouncement, he jerked his hand, and Dean and Sam were pulled into another room. The door slammed shut behind them. After a few more seconds, the makeshift tablecloth ropes unwound from their bodies and slithered away underneath the door, the white lace rippling.  
   
“Damn it!” said Dean, as soon as they were free. He rubbed his arms and legs, twitching. “I fucking hate that spell. Like goddamn snakes all over your body.” He shuddered.  
   
They had been locked in what looked like one of the spare bedrooms, if the furniture was anything to go by. Sam circled around the bed warily towards Dean, and perched on it. He winced when Dean, obviously feeling that profanity was not sufficient to express his outrage, whirled around and punched the wall.  
   
“God fucking damn it!” he said again, this time cradling his fist.  
   
“Dean,” Sam said. At his voice, Dean looked up.  
   
“Sorry Sammy,” Dean said. “Fuck, we are in some deep shit right now.” He rubbed at his forehead.  
   
“They’re crazy,” Sam said flatly. “Dean, we have to get the hell out of here.”  
   
Dean gave him a look. “You think?” He shook his head. “And if this is what the MOL is doing to us, who the hell knows what his ‘family’ is doing to Cas.” He slumped down next to Sam, holding his face in his hands. “Man,” he said, “Poor fucking bastard.” He looked up. “And Michael is really a dick. You know, I totally called it.” He groaned, flopping backwards onto the bed. “I hate being right, you know that?”  
   
“We haven’t checked in with Bobby yet,” said Sam. “He’ll know something’s up.”  
   
Dean grimaced. “Yeah, but how the hell’s he going to get here in time to do anything? And what would he do, anyway?” He licked his lips, hesitating for a split second, then spoke again. “Sammy, you know if even half of what Leo said is true, we can’t let that happen. If the Thule open some kind of gate, we can’t let that stand.”  
   
Sam jumped up. “Dean, no,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking, okay? I’m not letting you do that.”  
   
“Well I’m sure as hell not letting you sacrifice yourself,” Dean countered.  
   
“Well how about we don’t let the Thule open the goddamn gate and neither of us has to die!” Sam snapped.  
   
“Sam, we don’t know what the hell we’re up against,” Dean said. He stood as well. “The last time we ran into these guys, we got our asses handed to us. We only survived because Cas went goddamn nuclear on them!”  
   
“Well maybe we need Castiel to go nuclear on them again!”  
   
“Sam, I don’t know if you remember what happened last time? But maybe having Cas go nuts isn’t the best route.”  
   
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. “I know,” he said. “I know. I just—” he opened them. “We are not going to die for this, Dean. Not you. Not me.” He paused. “Not Cas.” He took in a fortifying breath. “But if we’re going to do anything, Dean, we need to get the hell out of here first.”  
   
Dean eyed him for a moment and then nodded. “You won’t get any argument from me on that,” he said. He bit his lower lip. “Any ideas?”  
   
Sam opened his mouth, then closed it glumly. “None,” he admitted, sitting back down on the bed.  
   
“Well,” said Dean. His mouth twisted wryly and he indicated the clock on the wall. “Guess we’d better think fast. I get the feeling they’re coming back in the morning, ready or not.”  
   
Sam nodded in agreement and they fell into a heavy silence.  
   
                                                                                        ~     *     ~  
   
When Castiel came to, he felt his back pressing against something hard. He tried to sit up, and discovered that his wrists were bound. He opened his eyes to early morning gloom, and a cold shiver went down his spine when he recognized where he was.  
   
He was in the rose garden.  
   
A shadowed figure stepped into view and began tugging the ropes around his wrists, tightening them. Castiel groaned, initial nausea settling into an ache at the base of his head.  
   
“You know, Castiel,” said Adriel, coming to stand next to him. “You always were my favorite little brother. So serious at such a young age. It was no wonder you soared above the rest.” He rested a hand on Castiel’s head, as if in benediction. Castiel shuddered. “That’s why I picked you.”  
   
“Adriel, how are you…alive?” he said. His limbs felt weak, like he had just gotten over a bad bout of the flu. “I—you were dead.”  
   
Adriel stepped closer. He cocked his head to the right. “Now why would you think that?” he mused. “As you can see, I’m clearly not.” He kneeled down to peer into Castiel’s eyes. “Ah,” he said after a moment. He laughed. It echoed strangely off the stone monument behind Castiel. “Michael, yes. I see.” He stood again, gesturing behind him, and another figure stepped forth. At Adriel’s motion, he handed him something wrapped in a nondescript brown cloth.  
   
Castiel’s eyes followed them until the man vanished into the dark. “That is a necromancer,” he hissed. “One of the Thule.” He began to struggle. “What’s going on?”  
   
Adriel chuckled. “They’re very useful, those Thule. I do wish you hadn’t killed the ones I sent to retrieve you.”  
   
“That was you?” Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt. “And the Winchesters as well. What did you want with them? What do you want with _me_?”  
   
Adriel raised his eyebrows but did not answer. “Did you know an angel fell here once?” he said instead. He began to unwrap the cloth. “Sad, really. Might have even been one of our ancestors, for all we know.” He pulled out a long, slim, knife, and tossed the cloth to the side. “This is holy ground,” he said. He crouched down next to Castiel, drawing the cold tip of the knife past his cheek, up along his throat. Castiel stayed very still. “And I’m just here to take advantage of that.”  
   
Castiel’s fists clenched. “Why?”  
   
Adriel stood up again, placing the knife casually into his belt. “We are not meant to be contained, Castiel. To live in secrecy.” He bent forward to whisper into Castiel’s ear. “We’re better than that.”  
   
“What are you talking about?”  
   
“I’m talking about Michael!” Adriel snarled, suddenly angry. “And all the _B’nei ha Malachim_ who are content to sit back, helping no one, doing nothing. Living like a filthy secret in the shadows.”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “You’ve gone insane, Adriel,” he bit out. “Something’s happened to you. You’ve lost your mind.”  
   
“No,” breathed Adriel, face inches from his. “I have found it.” He stepped back and began to pace again. “Michael would not hear me. I have been forced to take on the role of the accuser, _ha satan_. Then he will see. He will see our peoples’ true potential.”  
   
“He will not.” Castiel stuck out his chin. “I certainly do not.”  
   
But Adriel shook his head. “When I open the door you will understand, Castiel. _This_ is how we achieve greatness.”  
   
Castiel’s heart began to pound. “What door?”  
   
Adriel smiled. “The one to Gehenna,” he said. “Where the dead await.”  
   
“That is forbidden, Adriel. Why would you do such a thing?”  
   
Adriel looked at him, pity in his gaze. His eyes gleamed eerily in the predawn light. “Souls are power, Castiel,” he said. He smiled. “The Thule understand that intimately already. I have learned much from them, but they can’t take advantage of it like you or I can.”  
   
Castiel closed his eyes. “Michael was right,” he said, voice bitter. “You are dead. I have no brother here.”  
   
At that, Adriel reached down and pulled at Castiel’s hair, dragging his face up unwillingly. “That doesn’t matter,” he said harshly. “The stone has already accepted your blood. Sixteen years ago you gave it willingly. You are bound to this cycle, Castiel. There is no escaping it.” He shoved Castiel back down again. Castiel grunted in pain when his elbow smacked into the stone. Adriel looked up at the sky, inhaling deeply. A single bird called. “Dawn is arriving,” he said. “We will begin soon.”  
   
Sure enough, as the minutes passed, orange light began to streak across the sky, the sun’s rays stretching to encompass the garden around them, creeping towards where Castiel lay. Further away from the rose garden and its stone, that same sunlight eased into the windows of one of the cottages, and Dean sat up.  
   
“Sammy,” he said, voice urgent. “Sammy. It’s morning.” Even as he spoke, he could hear the sounds of the men of letters outside their door. Sam rose to his feet.  
   
“Do you think the gate’s been opened?”  
   
“I don’t know,” Dean said. He braced himself as the door unlocked itself with a click and swung open. Leo Ganem stepped inside, looking drawn, as though his features had been cut from stone.  
   
“It’s time,” he said. “They’re here. Are you prepared?”  
   
Dean peered past him at the empty house. “Where’s everyone else?”  
   
“The battlefield,” Leo said, witheringly. “Are. You. Prepared?”  
   
Sam and Dean shared a glance. “Oh yes,” Sam said. And then he raised one hand, and pointed it at Leo. “ _Ialprg!”_ he shouted.  
   
Leo jumped backwards, swearing as his coat suddenly caught fire. He smacked frantically at himself and the flames died away. He looked up, furious in the suddenly dead silence. “You,” he hissed, advancing on them. Dean and Sam scrambled away from him. “You _dare_ —”  
   
“Not bad,” said a new voice. A man appeared behind Leo. He leaned casually against the doorjamb, flicking light brown hair out of his eyes. Leo whirled around, and the man grinned. “Now let me show you how it’s really done.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. “Ialprg!” he bellowed.  
   
A circle of flames burst below Leo’s feet, trapping him. He howled, dancing away into the interior of the circle. His face, lit by fire, was a mask of rage.  
   
“This way, boys!” called the man, waving at them. “Time to go!”  
   
They didn’t need telling twice. “Who the hell are you?” panted Sam as they raced out of the house. The man winked at them.  
   
“I’m the favorite brother,” he said. He considered that for a moment, then added. “Well, maybe not Michael’s favorite. But definitely Castiel’s.”  
   
“You’re…Gabriel?” said Dean, realizing. They slowed to a stop at the edges of the garden.  
   
“The one and only,” Gabriel said. He tugged at Sam’s shirt, crouching down behind a large spruce tree. “Tell me what you know,” he commanded. “And spare the introductions. Cassy keeps me updated.”  
   
“Wait,” said Dean. “How did you know where we were?”  
   
Gabriel snorted. “Michael’s gone nuts,” he said. “Inias blabbed.” His expression darkened. “I went for Castiel first, but he was already gone by the time I got there.”  
   
Dean swore. “What are they going to do to him?” He began to stand back up, but Sam and Gabriel pulled him down again.  
   
“Listen to me,” Gabriel said intently. “There is a pitched battle going on out there and I don’t know which side has Castiel or why, but you can’t just go charging in there and expect to find him. We need to know more. So what did the Men of Letters tell you?”  
   
“Cas needs our help!” Dean protested.  
   
“They didn’t tell us much,” Sam said quickly. “Just something about a witch who tried to open some kind of gate and that the Thule want to do it all over again. It’s some kind of blood spell, but they didn’t say…” he trailed off, his mouth slacking in realization.  
   
Dean grabbed his shoulder. “What?”  
   
Sam stood quickly. “I know where Castiel is,” he said, breathless.  
   
“What? How?”  
   
“Where?” Gabriel surged upward.  
   
Sam closed his eyes, swallowed. “The rose garden,” he said. He opened his eyes, turning to Dean. “Dean, the Men of Letters straight up _told us_ that the spell required to open the gate needs blood. And Castiel did a goddamn blood spell right there when he—” he stopped, glancing at Gabriel.  
   
“Well go on,” Gabriel said impatiently. “I know about Castiel’s youthful indiscretions.”  
   
“When he called down Castiel,” Sam finished quietly.  
   
Gabriel’s eyes flickered between Sam and Dean. “What are you talking about?” he said slowly. “The blood spell failed. Castiel couldn’t hold it and Adriel—” he stopped, face pained. “Adriel was lost.”  
   
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Were you there?”  
   
“No,” Gabriel said. “But I came back as soon as I heard. That’s what Michael told me. And Castiel couldn’t remember. Michael didn’t want him to know how Adriel had died. He didn’t want him to feel responsible.” He stopped short at Sam and Dean’s expressions, inhaling sharply. “Damn it,” he said. He looked up at Sam and Dean. “You’re saying that’s not what happened?”  
   
“Yeah, no,” said Dean. “Apparently if you write down an angel’s name in blood, that’s basically an engraved invitation to come visit. We had a nice chat with the guy, actually. Terrible sense of humor.”  
   
“What?” Gabriel demanded. “That’s impossible.”  
   
“It’s kind of a long story,” Sam said.  
   
“Yeah, and we’d love to tell it to you but maybe right now isn’t the best time,” Dean suggested. He could hear shouts further away, towards the house. “We need to find Cas. And we can’t let them open that gate because I sure as hell do _not_ want to have to close it again.”  
   
“They’re probably going to try to use Castiel to open it. He’s already bled on the stone once,” Sam said, thinking fast. His brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make sense though. Leo said that the blood that opens it is the blood that can close it. So unless Michael or somebody’s actually the one trying to open the damn thing—”  
   
“They’ve probably figured some way around that,” Dean said impatiently. “I’m sure the stupid rock isn’t that picky.”  
   
“Listen,” Gabriel cut in. “If what you’re telling me is true, then we need to get to the rose garden before some lunatic slits my brother’s throat, without getting killed by those nutsos surrounding them. Is that right?”  
   
Dean considered him, then nodded. “Right.” He frowned. “More or less.”  
   
“Okay,” said Gabriel. He rubbed his palms together. “Follow me.”  
   
Rather than leading them towards the house and the chaos there however, Gabriel turned in the opposite direction, towards the lake. Sam and Dean followed, keeping to the shadows as best as they could, though it seemed as though most of the fighting was contained to the gardens.  
   
“Where are we going?” Sam asked, as Gabriel took them unerringly closer to the water. He stopped suddenly, and Sam nearly bowled into him.  
   
“Down,” Gabriel said. He tapped one of the large boulders next to him, and Dean was surprised to hear it echo hollowly. Gabriel pointed towards the house that straddled the stream and the generator Castiel had told them it contained. “Winter’s a bitch here,” he said. “But when the electricity craps out, _someone_ has to come and fix it.” He lifted up the rock easily, revealing a standard manhole cover. “That’s why we have a tunnel.”  
   
“And this leads to the garden?” Dean asked as Sam and Gabriel pried up the cover.  
   
“To the back porch,” Gabriel answered. He stuck his feet into the hole, then began to climb down. “But I’d say that’s our best shot.”  
   
After a dubious look at Sam, Dean proceeded after him.  
   
The tunnel was just about as dank as one would expect, though there were helpful little green LED lights lining the floor, guiding them along, and a metal railing to cling to. Dean did not like feeling so confined. It made him itch between his shoulders.  
   
“So Inias called you?” Sam asked as they half-jogged, half-walked down the tunnel.  
   
“He did,” Gabriel said. “Apparently Michael hadn’t told him that locking up Castiel and tricking his friends was anywhere on the schedule, nor had he been told about the Thule planning a little visit. I suspect that was the final straw.” He shook his head. “Inias told me before that Michael was obsessed with tracking down necromancers, but I didn’t pay much attention; Michael’s always been obsessive.” He ground to a halt as green lights petered away and the tunnel abruptly ended. “I wish I had listened.”  
   
“Is this it?” asked Dean. He craned his neck up and could see another ladder that vanished into darkness.  
   
“Yeah,” Gabriel said. He glanced up as well. “Better let me go first.” He reached upward, testing the strength of the metal ladder, then began to climb again. Sam and Dean hurried up after him.  
   
They emerged around the corner of the main house, just off of a scene of madness.  
   
“Holy shit,” Dean said, as they took it in.  
   
The sun was almost completely risen, and in the grey shadows mixed with blinding morning, they could hear the now familiar cries of Enochian, as well as the even more familiar Latin, interspersed with the occasional Greek. Bursts of light, like tiny lightening strikes, flashed to reveal snapshots of darkened corners, battles fought behind trees and bushes and across garden benches. And in the center of it all—  
   
“Cas!” Dean shouted. He sprang away before Sam and Gabriel could stop him, heading straight for the rose garden, dodging those he could, and bringing down his own fists in ruthless fury upon those who refused to move. “Cas!”  
   
Sam and Gabriel charged after him.  
   
Castiel, still tied next to the stone at the center of the rose garden, guarded by Adriel until the sun had risen completely and the spell could be completed, twisted in his bonds when he heard Dean’s call.  
   
“Dean!” he shouted, voice cracking. “No, Dean, stay away!”  
   
Dean did not stop. “Are you fucking crazy?” he bellowed.  
   
Adriel turned, his eyes alighting with interest. “So that’s Dean Winchester?” He tilted his head. “I would have thought he would be taller.” He raised his hand and a beam of white light shot at Dean, who barely managed to dodge it.  
   
“What the fuck?” Dean panted. He skidded to a halt next to a holly bush, allowing Sam and Gabriel to catch up to him. He turned to Gabriel. “What the fuck happened to Michael?”  
   
But Gabriel’s eyes widened in surprise as he took in the figure. “That’s not Michael,” he said, stunned. His expression wavered. “But that’s impossible. It can’t be.” As Sam and Dean turned to ask him what he meant, Adriel raised his hand again. The three sprang apart as another lightening bolt destroyed the bush they had been standing next to. Dean clamped his hands over his ears, feeling blood start to leak between his fingers. His head rang.  
   
Next to Adriel, Castiel forced himself to a kneeling position. “Adriel!” he cried. “Please stop this! I don’t know what sickness infected you that day or why I was spared but _please_ , brother. Please!”  
   
Adriel whirled on him. “You are wrong, Castiel! I was the one who was spared! I grew powerful that day, Castiel! You were left with nothing. And this _must_ be finished!”  
   
“Adriel please!” said Castiel again. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Adriel if you spare them I will go to you willingly.” He opened his eyes at Adriel’s sudden pause. Castiel pushed himself further upright. “Brother you know a willing sacrifice is twice as powerful as an unwilling. I will cut my wrists and I will write my name and I will anchor the spell for you until I bleed out but please!” His voice faltered, then grew strong again. “Spare them.”  
   
Adriel stared at him for a long moment. Then he looked up at the sky. The sun had risen completely. He dropped his hand, turning his back on the fight. “Swear it.”  
   
“I swear,” Castiel choked out.  
   
In one sharp move, Adriel cut his bonds. Castiel struggled to his feet and Adriel handed him the knife, stepping away quickly. “Do it.”  
   
Castiel nodded, then raised the knife, making a bright slash across his wrist. Blood dripped down onto the stone. Adriel began to chant in Enochian.  
   
“What is he doing?” Dean scrambled upright, hands and knees scrabbling in the dirt, heedless of the pain in his ears, of the chaos still surging around him. “Cas, no!”  
   
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel whispered. He smeared his blood on the stone, drawing first a six-pointed star, then a circle around that star. Behind Adriel, something began to pulse in the air. Inside the star, Castiel traced out his name carefully with shaking fingers. The pulsating thing behind Adriel began to tear open, the light from the sun illuminating a yawning gap, inherently wrong in its construction. And then Castiel slammed his bloody palm down in the middle of the sigil, and cried out,  
   
“I call thee down, Castiel, Angel of the Lord! I am your servant! This vessel is yours to command and I give it freely!”  
   
Adriel’s eyes shot open. “What are you doing?” he demanded. He lunged for Castiel, but Castiel stepped out of his reach.  
   
“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, as sudden thunder boomed above him. A fierce wind picked up. “But this cannot be.” He turned his face upward towards the heavens, spread his arms out widely, blood still dripping onto the stone below, and called out, “I am here, Castiel!”  
   
Lightning flashed, illuminating his face, already paling from blood loss, tears staining his cheeks. It flashed again, this time striking him. Castiel screamed. His body convulsed as the light poured on to him, over him, into him, bathing his eyes and his mouth as his whole body brightened as though lit by an internal flame.  
   
And then it stopped. A hush fell over the gardens and the meadow and the forest beyond, everyone frozen at the sudden display of naked power. Farther away, Dean watched with bated breath as Castiel straightened. He opened his eyes.  
   
They flashed white.  
   
“What,” Adriel whispered. “Castiel, what did you do?” He scrambled backwards as Castiel reached for him. “Stay away from me!”  
   
Castiel, the _angel_ Castiel, stepped toward him. “I am Castiel,” he said. He squinted, nostrils flaring in what might have been surprise. “You harbor some of my brother’s grace,” he said. “It was not meant for you.”  
   
“What do you mean?” Adriel grit out.  
   
Castiel nodded somberly. “It has poisoned you,” he said. “It must be returned.” He then looked at the window that had formed behind Adriel. His eyes narrowed. “Abomination,” he said flatly. He reached out, hand aiming for Adriel’s forehead, light beginning to gather between his fingertips.  
   
“Adriel!” someone shouted as Castiel let loose a ball of light straight at Adriel. Adriel stood frozen, but the light never hit him. Instead, it smashed straight into Michael’s chest. Michael, who had leapt between them at the last moment.  
   
“No,” gasped Gabriel into the sudden silence.  
   
Michael stumbled backward towards Adriel, clutching at his chest. He fell to his knees. Adriel blinked down at him.  
   
“Michael?” he said, voice small. “Michael, why?”  
   
Michael swallowed. “I am,” he whispered, “always my brother’s keeper.” And then, he smiled. And before Adriel’s stunned gaze, he slumped sideways, unmoving.  
   
Adriel stared down at him. He knelt, pushing at Michael’s shoulder. “Michael,” he said. “Michael, no.” He grabbed Michael’s hand, bringing it to his forehead, rocking him. “Michael no, you can’t. It wasn’t supposed to be you.” He drew in a harsh breath, “You stupid son of a bitch, it wasn’t supposed to be you!”  
   
Castiel watched, impassive. “There is a price,” he said. “The grace must be returned.”  
   
Adriel looked up. “No,” he said. He got to his feet. “You murdered my brother.”  
   
“Your brother made a choice,” Castiel said.  
   
“You killed him!” He stepped backwards again. As Castiel moved to follow, Adriel’s foot caught on one of the iron trellises. He lurched sideways, hands careening wildly for balance.  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “It is your choice,” he said. He opened his hand, turned palm up, and blew on it. His breath formed a mist. It headed for Adriel, wrapping around him. Adriel struggled as though caught in a net. He wobbled to the side, cursing at Castiel, tears streaming down his cheeks. And then finally he fell, tripping backwards into the gate, vanishing from sight into the unnatural darkness beyond.  
   
Castiel held up his hand, and the mist remerged. It settled around the edges of the portal that Adriel had opened. He clenched his fist, and the mist glittered, then solidified, and then it was as if the tear between worlds had never been.  
   
Castiel bowed his head. “It is done.”  
   
He began to walk away. As he left the bowed iron shelter of the rose garden, the clouds above him started to clear. Dean, sensing his opportunity, steeled himself and set after him, ignoring the ringing in his ears.  
   
“Castiel!” he called. “Castiel!”  
   
Castiel turned, watching curiously as Dean sped up. “Dean Winchester,” he said, as Dean came to stand before him. “My vessel knows you.”  
   
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “I—” he said. “Yeah.” He rubbed at his ears. “Um, Castiel, I realize you’re an Angel of the Lord and all—” he froze as Castiel, frowning, extended a hand to him. Before Dean could step away, Castiel’s finger had made contact. An odd coolness flowed through his body, and then suddenly, Dean’s ears stopped throbbing, and he could hear much better. “Wow,” he said. “Uh, thanks.”  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “You wished to speak to me?” he said, looking up at the sky. He looked back at Dean. “Then speak.”  
   
“Well,” said Dean. “It’s not really about you. I mean, Cas is—” he stopped. “Are you going to give him back?”  
   
Castiel eyed him thoughtfully. “You speak of my vessel,” he said.  
   
“Um, yeah,” said Dean. “Castiel—Cas, that is. The human Cas.”  
   
Castiel shook his head.  
   
“But what do you need him for?” Dean burst out. “You’re an angel for god’s sake.”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. “I am an Angel of the Lord. When this vessel prayed for me he knew there was a price and he paid it willingly.” His eyes flashed. “I told you the last time we spoke that I would not be so merciful again. Not to mention, this vessel is in pain, Dean. Deep pain even I cannot heal him from. It would be a greater mercy not to release him.”  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
Castiel looked gently at him. “The human body is not meant to harbor an angel’s grace uninhibited for so long,” he said. “Not even one of the nephilim. You witnessed its effect on his brother, did you not? If I release him, even taking all of my grace with me this time, he would not be…undamaged. Do you want that for him, Dean? Would you want him to suffer, as he is now?”  
   
Dean clenched his teeth. “Life is suffering,” he said. “I don’t care.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “I do not understand,” he said. “He is not your kin. You are not bound to each other—”  
   
“Actually,” Sam said, his voice wavering a little as Castiel turned his intense gaze at him. Unnoticed by either of them, he had come to stand at Dean’s shoulder. “Technically they are. Bound, that is. I uh, gave my brother away to him in exchange for a goat and a chicken. Which,” Sam took a deep breath. “Which he still owes me, so he’s also in debt. To me. Kind of.”  
   
Silence followed this pronouncement. Castiel looked at Dean. “I see,” he said. “And has this binding been…consummated?” he asked delicately.  
   
“Um,” said Dean. “You could say that. Yeah.”  
   
“I see,” Castiel said again. “So you are bound to him.” He blinked at Sam. “And my vessel also owes you…a goat.”  
   
“And a chicken,” Sam added quickly.  
   
Castiel exhaled. “This is not in my purview,” he announced, starting to sound a little bit pissy. “I am the angel of solitude and tears. I will need to consult my brethren.”  
   
“Wait!” said Dean. “Aren’t you also the angel of Thursday?”  
   
“I am.”  
   
“Well it is totally a Thursday,” Dean said.  
   
Castiel squinted. “It is a Wednesday.”  
   
“It’s a Thursday in China,” Dean countered.  
   
“No.” A beat. “It is not.”  
   
“Okay fine.” Dean gnawed on his lower lip and then, seeming to come to a decision, set his shoulders. “Why don’t you just ask him?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said. “Your vessel. If he—if he’s really in as much pain as you say, if he’d really prefer not to, not to come back.” His voice broke a little. “Please,” he said. “But if he says he’s willing to try…will you let him go?”  
   
Castiel gave him a deep, measured stare. Then he closed his eyes. Dean took a quick breath and Sam gripped his arm, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. They waited.  
   
Finally, Castiel opened his eyes again. He turned his gaze on Dean, who could feel his heart rate increase.  
   
“You humans are such peculiar creatures,” he said. “I believe I will never fully understand you.” The ghost of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. He bowed his head one more time. Then his whole body began to glow white at the edges, light pouring out of his eyes, his mouth. It swirled around him, engulfing him, then shot up towards the heavens.  
   
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Around him, he heard cries of dismay as the light grew brighter and brighter against his eyelids.  
   
And then a voice on the wind whispered, “It is done.”  
   
After a moment, Dean blinked his eyes open cautiously. Seeing nothing more than plain, morning sunlight waiting for him, he opened them up the rest of the way.  
   
Castiel lay eagle-spread on the ground. His eyes were shut. Dean dragged himself to his feet, stumbling over to him. “Cas!” he said. “Cas!” he fell to his knees, gathering Castiel’s head in his lap, feeling for a pulse on his neck. He nearly sobbed in relief when he found one.  
   
“Dean?” Castiel said hoarsely. His eyelids fluttered. Dean exhaled.  
   
“Fuck,” he said. He swiped at his cheeks. “Cas, you asshole. Don’t you ever do anything like that ever again. You hear me?”  
   
Castiel managed a weak smile. “Sorry,” he said, coughing a little. “Didn’t have much of a choice.” His head lolled to the side. Dean steadied it with trembling hands. “Is…is _he_ gone?”  
   
Dean buried his face in Castiel’s dusty hair. “Yeah,” he said, voice husky. “Yeah, he’s gone. I told you.”  
   
“Kept your promise,” Castiel rasped.  
   
“Of course I did,” Dean said. He swallowed. “You gotta learn to trust me, man.”  
   
“I do,” Castiel said quietly. “You know I do.” He attempted to pat Dean on the leg reassuringly, but his arm just sort of flopped about instead. “I think,” he said. “I think I need a nap.”  
   
Dean barked out something between a laugh and a sob. “Okay,” he said. “So long as you promise to wake up again.”  
   
Even with his eyes still mostly shut, Castiel managed to look affronted. “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
   
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Dean said. He stroked the side of Castiel’s face, then his hair. “Sleep, Cas. I’ll be here when you wake up.”  
   
“Okay,” Castiel murmured. His breathing steadied out. All around them, bloody, dirty survivors struggled to their feet, dazed at the quiet that had descended upon the morning. A gentle breeze rustled the grass. It shook the leaves on bushes and the branches on the trees. A bird twittered, then another. Further away, Gabriel greeted Inias with a tight embrace and a solemn look; they turned together to lift Michael’s body and bear it away.  
   
And through it all, Dean sat on the ground in the middle of the garden, Castiel’s head in his lap, breathing deeply, combing his fingers through Castiel’s tussled hair. And Castiel slept on, oblivious to the waking world, content in that Dean was watching him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick cultural context: Satan/the devil/Lucifer doesn't exist in Judaism the same way he does in Christianity. "Satan" or "Ha Satan" is more thought of (very vaguely) as an accuser, an obstacle in one's way, or a tempter, a role that could be given to any angel with God's permission, with the task of seeing which humans are righteous and which are not. Since it would have been out of place to have someone named Lucifer in the Judah Initiative, I therefore substituted the angel Adriel, who is the angel of death and destruction, and had him act in the role of "Satan". 
> 
> Additionally, just as Lucifer doesn't exist in Judaism, neither does the concept of hell as it appears in Christianity. The closest approximation is Gehenna, where wicked souls go to be purified of their sins. Souls can only spend up to a year in Gehenna. The more neutral version of the afterlife is called "Sheol".
> 
> Leo's mention of biblical irony as far as the witch who killed his most beloved son is a reference to the story of Abraham who was commanded to sacrifice his son Isaac, until God told him not to at the very last minute. Likewise, Michael's last words are a reference to the story of Cain and Abel. After Cain killed Abel, and then God asked him where Abel was, he said "I know not: am I my brother's keeper?" (Um, yes Cain. You were.)


	12. Chapter 12

**EPILOGUE**

 

“I am getting very tired,” Castiel said, without opening his eyes, “of waking up like this.” He shifted in his bed, scowling.  
   
“You wake up like this every day,” Dean said sensibly.  
   
Castiel’s nose wrinkled. He pawed at the covers, trying to remove them without much success. “Usually I am allowed to leave the bed after waking.”  
   
Dean snorted. “Then quit throwing yourself in danger, you asshole.” He rubbed at his temples. “Goddamn.”  
   
Castiel raised his hand in mute appeal. Dean grasped it. “You’d miss it,” Castiel said. “The spark would be gone.”  
   
“I really, really wouldn’t,” Dean replied. He moved forward and bent over Castiel, lips brushing his forehead. “Time to get up,” he whispered.  
   
Castiel groaned, his eyes cracking open. “Coffee?” he said hopefully, stretching a little as Dean brushed back his hair.  
   
“Fuck you,” Dean said. “No fucking way.”  
   
“Please, Dean?”  
   
“No,” Dean snapped. “The doctor says no. I say no.”  
   
“Gabriel is a dermatologist.”  
   
“He’s still got extra letters after his name, he’s qualified enough for me. You can have tea.”  
   
“I don’t _want_ tea.”  
   
“Well, tough.” Dean sat down on the side of the bed, turning towards Castiel and giving his shoulders a brisk rub to warm the muscles. “Want to sit up?”  
   
Castiel grumbled something, but Dean took that as a yes. He gently eased his hands under Castiel’s armpits, pulling him upright and allowing him to lean against the headboard. Castiel shut his eyes at the movement, breathing through his nose.  
   
“Still dizzy?” Sam asked sympathetically, coming into the room.  
   
“Obviously,” Castiel said, tone just this side of biting. He still accepted the mug of hot tea Sam handed to him though, not even needing to look to take it. His hands shook when he held it. He took a sip then, opening his eyes, extended it out to Dean, who took it absently.  
   
“Naomi said it’ll pass,” Dean said. He squeezed Castiel’s knee under the covers. “And she’s even a real doctor.”  
   
“Naomi would let me have coffee,” Castiel muttered rebelliously.  
   
“No she wouldn’t,” Dean said cheerfully. “More tea?”  
   
“No.” A pause. “Fine.”  
   
“What’s the magic word?”  
   
“Dean, give me the tea.”  
   
“Wait. Sam, turn on your phone. I want to record him saying that.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel whined. “Please?”  
   
“Fine, fine.” Dean handed him the mug again, steadying Castiel’s grip as he took a few more sips. “Done?”  
   
Castiel swallowed the tea. “Yes. Thank you.”  
   
“I should really record you saying _that_ ,” Dean said, getting up to put the mug on the bedside table. He eyed Castiel, who was leaning heavily against the headboard, clearly losing the battle to keep his eyes open. “Want to lie back down?” Dean asked.  
   
Castiel hesitated, then nodded, and Dean helped him ease back down again. Dean smoothed the covers over his chest as Castiel drifted back to sleep. He stood there for a moment, watching Castiel’s face.  
   
“He seems to be getting better,” Sam said quietly.  
   
“Yeah.” Dean turned away. “I guess.”  
   
“Dean, a week ago he barely knew his own name. Now he’s waking up and demanding coffee.”  
   
“I know,” Dean said. He passed his hand over his face. “It’s just—we don’t really know what happens after you get your ass ridden by an angel and then put away wet, you know? I just want him to be back to his old self.” He glanced over at Castiel again. “You know?” he said quietly. “I just want that, Sammy.””  
   
“I know.”  
   
Dean heaved a sigh.  
   
Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, turning him to face him. “Dean,” he said, “He’ll get there.” He tilted his head. “The man almost sacrificed his life for you. He won’t let you down.”  
   
Dean nodded tightly. He looked away out the window, then back at Sam. “How are Gabriel and Inias doing?”  
   
Sam lifted his shoulders, grimacing. “They only buried Michael yesterday,” he said. “And there are two more funerals today. I think they’ve probably been better.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. He sat back down next to Castiel’s bedside, absently rolling the covers between his fingers. “We’ve all been better.”  
   
“We’ve also all been a hell of a lot worse,” Sam countered.  
   
Dean snorted. “True,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck now.”  
   
“Yeah well,” said Sam. “It’s the glamorous life we live.” He collected the mug from the table. “I’m going to go see if I can’t intimidate Clive some more. See you later?”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. He jerked his head at the sleeping Castiel. “You know where to find me.”  
   
After Sam left, Dean puttered around the room. He had already picked up smashed pieces of plastic and glass from around what might have been a mirror in a previous life, and piled the remnants of broken trophies onto the desk. To be honest, there wasn’t else much to do in Castiel’s room, what with its main occupant sleeping ninety-five percent of the time.  
   
Dean knew he could leave, go find a book to read that wasn’t one of the ones on Castiel’s bookshelf or even catch some satellite TV, but he found himself reluctant to do so. Instead, he sat down on the rug and settled himself to reorganizing the books on Castiel’s bookshelf for the third time that week—this time alphabetically by the second letter of the author’s first name.  
   
About ten minutes in, Dean heard Castiel stirring. He got to his feet quickly. Usually Castiel was awake for a few minutes at a time, then slept for a good three or four hours. This was less than an hour after he’d been awake last.  
   
Dean reached the bed. “Cas? You okay?”  
   
Eyes still shut, Castiel licked dry lips. “Tomorrow,” he said, voice cracked and hoarse from disuse.  
   
Dean blinked. “Uh, what?”  
   
“Tomorrow,” Castiel repeated. He managed to pry open his eyes and turned his head to give Dean an imperious stare.  
   
“What about it?” Dean asked, wondering if this was the part where he called Sam for backup.  
   
“Tomorrow,” Castiel said, “I am going to sit up. On my own.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean cocked his head, a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “That so?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. “And next week, I am going to stand up.”  
   
Dean raised his eyebrows, looking down at him. “Yeah?” he said. “Then what?”  
   
“Then,” Castiel said, matter-of-factly, “I am going to walk.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“Then I will run.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“And by the end of the month I will be perfectly capable of blowing you in the bathroom,” Castiel informed him haughtily.  
   
“Okay—wait, what?”  
   
Castiel dragged his hand out from under the covers and extended it to Dean, who grasped it firmly between his own. “Wait for me, Dean,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”  
   
Dean squeezed his hand. “I know,” he said, eyes suspiciously bright. “I know.” He smiled. “I never doubted you for a minute.”  
   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all who have been watching this fic and commenting along the whole journey. I set out to write a short story in which Castiel was a nice Jewish boy (and Dean is definitely not), and somehow ended up here. No regrets, I hope you've had as much fun as I have.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "The Mensch by Aerlalaith"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167119) by [PeggyStarkk (LupusUlulans)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LupusUlulans/pseuds/PeggyStarkk)




End file.
